What We Deserve
by Super V
Summary: Cato's P.O.V. of the battle with the Mutts at the Cornucopia. When the Girl on Fire falls to her death and leaves Peeta alone to face Cato, why can't these once-allies seem to kill each other? Time is running out as pulses, stakes, and emotions run high.
1. No Victors

**Chapter 1: No Victors**

* * *

Chaos. It was utter and complete chaos. Cato's mind struggled to process the barrage of information overwhelming his senses, to rely on instinct, to fight through the oxygen deprivation; to survive as he had been taught to.

Snarling, snapping abominations sank their four-inch claws into the metal structure of the Cornucopia, howling a series of human-like shrieks, and moans - crying out, for blood, for vengeance. He didn't know what sick Game the Capitol was playing at, but he recognized the eyes of his own teammate, Clove. Her eyes, which he had seen go still, were staring at him from the face of a Wolf Mutt.

He realized that this wasn't right, that he knew exactly what twisted Game the Capitol was playing: the Hunger Games. The 74th Hunger Games, to be exact. His Hunger Games.

His whole life had lead him to this Games, where he was to be crowned Victor. He had only two more Tributes to outlast - that detestable girl from 12, Katniss Everdeen, and her teammate, who had been his own ally, Peeta Mellark.

His burning lungs protested the gulps he took from the night air, stinging cold through his entire body. Intense pain nearly blinded him, and he brushed his hands over the source, feeling his own rib, cracked, trying to push through his skin. It seemed his body armor was protecting his insides as well as his outside.

Cato tried to remember his training. He had been told to 'Fight through the pain.' His mentor used to say to him, "It's only for a little while. Fight through the pain and you'll never have to feel any pain again, when you're a Victor."

Cato forced his eyes away from his ribs, and let out a bark of laughter. Fight through the pain. Pain wasn't even the half of it. Oh, there was pain, certainly, but there was also fear. Regret. Loss.

They had never taught him how to fight these things.

Winning, he knew, would never quell those feelings, even if his superficial injuries could be healed - especially if he came out of these Games as a Victor, alone, having lost his teammate, his best friend, Clove... and having lost... him.

He wasn't quite sure when it was he had come to feel the way he did for someone whom he'd originally held such contempt for. When Peeta Mellark had announced to Panem that he was in love with Katniss Everdeen in his televised interview, with Caeser Flickermann, Cato had simply thought it a pathetic attempt at strategy - A trick, to lure the audience and the sponsors to favor him, nothing more.

It became clear early on in the Games, however, that Peeta really felt that way. Cato never gave a damn, as long as Peeta lead the Career Pack to the so-called 'Girl on Fire' so that they could kill her. That had been the plan.

That had been the plan, at least, until Katniss Everdeen dropped a Tracker Jacker nest on their heads, a trap which had proven deadly for Glimmer, and, put mildly, a definite setback for the rest of the Career Pack.

Was it the Tracker Jacker venom? '_Does Tracker Jacker venom have long-lasting psychological effects?'_ He wondered numbly, as his head began to clear, to make sense of things through the haze of near asphyxiation.

He found himself standing steadily, and, to his relief, besides his cracked rib, he seemed relatively unharmed. He finally turned his attention to the Tributes from District 12, who were peering precariously over the side of the Cornucopia, screaming to each other about the Mutt's eyes.

Had it taken them this long to figure it out? Perhaps they were at the end of their ropes, just like he was, barely hanging on. He knew, without a doubt, that he could hang on longer. All he had to do was outlast-

It happened in an instant. Katniss, who had loaded up an arrow to take out one of the Mutts, Glimmer, who was making her way dangerously up the side of the Cornucopia, lost her footing. Too close to the edge, Cato could have told them that. Her body jerked, and as she slid down the side of the Cornucopia, her head slammed against the hard metal.

CLANG. The sound of an impact on metal.

BOOM. The sound of the canon.

There is was. Katniss Everdeen, the famous 'Girl on Fire' who scored an 11 for her individual session with the Game Makers, was dead before she hit the ground. The Muttations descended upon her lifeless body, and began to feed.

Peeta Mellark began screaming for her at the top of his lungs, even though there was no doubt it was too late. Cato felt a pang in his chest, not for the fallen girl, but for her teammate, who cared so freely, loved, in a way that Cato had never seen. No one in District 2 would be caught dead sobbing over a fallen companion. To cry at funerals was frowned upon, if you were a child, and punished, if you were older.

In District 2, love was considered a sign of weakness. Oh, sure, people fucked, had children; got married, even. Marriages were merely contracts for making children. Usually, these contracts were based on your physical prowess and the genetic traits that you would offer your unborn child, your unborn tribute for the Games; if you were lucky, your unborn Victor. His own parents had gone through several contracts each before they had arrived at the one that spawned him. Far superior to his mediocre siblings, Cato became the Alpha. He pushed them down and kept them there.

Even Clove, with whom he had trained his entire life, Clove, whom he had known practically since birth, showed him no affection. The night before the Games, they had fucked, not wanting to win or to die as incomplete children.

When she died, Cato had sought out Thresh, and made him pay, but Peeta Mellark would be hard pressed to jump into the pack of Mutts to take his revenge. Somehow, Cato was certain that the thought hadn't even crossed the boy's mind. Perhaps that was why, the idea of leaving these Games without him, without Peeta Mellark seemed so impossible.

He was different than anyone Cato had ever met. When Cato was younger, he had felt that whoever won the Games made it out because they deserved to be there the most. There was not a single Tribute who didn't deserve to be in the Games. No one was above it. No one was beyond it, because when it came down to it, everyone picked up a weapon, didn't they? Cato didn't give a damn if they didn't know how to use it, everyone picked up a knife or a spear or a rock with the intention of killing everyone else, and ensuring that they were the one who made it out alive. Whoever was the last Tribute standing won simply because they deserved to be there the most.

This is what Cato thought, at least, until Peeta Mellark.

Peeta Mellark had picked up a weapon, certainly; killed, even, but it was never with the intention that _he_ would be the one to get out of the Games alive. Peeta Mellark was the only Tribute he had ever seen who didn't, truly didn't deserve to be there. Some part of Cato told him that for this reason, Peeta should be the one to win these Games, and not him.

Unfortunately for Peeta Mellark, Cato did deserve to be here, more than any of the other Tributes. That meant that every time he picked up a weapon, it was to ensure that he, and no one else, would be the Victor of these Games.

And yet... They had promised, hadn't they? The Capitol had said two Tributes could win - two Tributes from the same District. Cato knew this was how it had to end, as he moved toward Peeta, who still lay, prone and helpless, at the edge of the Cornucopia, screaming at the butchered piece of meat that was once Katniss Everdeen.

Cato cast a glance at the sky, wondering when the hovercraft would arrive for the body. It was a special form of torture, what the Capitol was doing to Peeta. Cato suppressed the feeling that this was wrong, unfair, somehow. In District 2, they learned that the Capitol was just, and fair. Everything they did was for retaliation and prevention. Not from spite, or to punish those who live now.

Right, yes. This was punishment for Katniss Everdeen.

Cato's steps were firm, and deliberate. It wouldn't do for him to slip and fall too. That would be one anticlimactic Victory for Peeta Mellark. He would win the Games by default only, sobbing, lying sprawled and pathetic as his competitors died from head wounds inflicted by their own clumsiness.

When Cato stood over Peeta, he reached down and grabbed him by the shirt, flipping him roughly. Peeta's tortured eyes met Cato's, and he choked out bravely, "Make it quick okay? This is way farther than I ever thought I'd make it... and I haven't got anything to live for now anyway."

This was all wrong. This was not a kill Cato could be proud of...

He had been all ready, hands raised in an interlocked fist to bring a killing blow to the boy's windpipe. Not the quickest death, but a death; a certain death, unlike a blow to the head or even tossing him to the Mutts would be. His hands shook where he clasped them above his head.

Peeta's eyes looked into his with such despair, that he finally relented, and stepped back, and paced the top of the Cornucopia, more carelessly now. Peeta seemed to be shaking himself free of his own tragedy at least a bit, and rose to a sitting position to watch him. This made it all worse somehow.

Cato understood, of course he understood, why Peeta had no desire to go home now. It was the same way he couldn't seem to stop himself from feeling that the idea of going home without this boy from 12 would mean he never went home - not really. He would always find his mind drifting back to this moment, when nothing could be done to save Peeta, but everything could be done, if he could just think more clearly.

Cato let out a snarl.

"Cato," Peeta dragged himself across the golden metal surface, and left a trail of blood behind him. Cato found himself stopping in terror as he noticed how pale Peeta was. He was losing blood quickly. There wasn't much time.

It was then that Cato caught sight of Peeta's hand, clutching a silver arrow. Was he trying to make an attack? But why was he suddenly bleeding so much? Cato forced himself to focus, taking in the big picture as it lay in front of him. Fight through the pain, and the other maelstrom of emotions that was overtaking his very ability to process the information being sent to his brain by his senses. The arrow had been Peeta's tourniquet, and without it, blood gushed freely from the wound on his leg.

There was no time.

Peeta dragged himself to Cato's feet and choked out more blood, face losing even more color. No. This wasn't fair. He needed more time. Just a minute, a few seconds, anything. Cato's knees buckled, and he fell, almost hitting Peeta as he did so.

Peeta was shaking all over, but somehow found the strength to raise the trembling fist containing the blood-s arrow to Cato. It was the only weapon left. All the others had been discarded in the chaos. It was clear what he wanted Cato to do. Peeta tried to rise, but sprawled, choking, across Cato's lap, arrow still outstretched to him.

No.

Cato could feel Peeta's heart slowing, his body growing cold. Breathing seemed to be all he could manage. Just a few more seconds and he would be dead. It would be over. Just a few more seconds. Cato wrapped his hands around the arrow in Peeta's hand, and Peeta nodded weakly, encouraging him to strike the killing blow.

Cato swallowed, hard, and found his voice. He tore the arrow from Peeta's hand, raising it high into the air, screaming at the night in a moment of temporary insanity, "TWO VICTORS OR NO VICTORS!" With that, he plunged the arrow deep into his own throat.


	2. What It Feels Like To Die

**Chapter 2: What It Feels Like To Die**

* * *

Cato awoke to the beeping of monitors, all around him. All sorts of machines, buzzing and humming: pumping his heart, breathing for him, and filling the emptiness with little dissonant blips and tones. The lights, glaring down at him from the ceiling seemed over-bright, and as soon as his eyes fluttered open, he pressed them shut.

A dull ache at his throat made him try to reach up, to touch it, to assess the damage, but he found his arms strapped down. Even a twitch of his fingers illustrated, in painstaking detail, all the needles and tubes that were stuck into his hand. He counted five. He knew that two were to dull the pain, one to feed his body nutrients, one to help with the dehydration, and one was pumping his body full of antibiotics. He also felt a clip around his finger that he knew must be monitoring his pulse.

He was alive.

The thought gave him relief for only a second before he realized that if he was alive, Peeta Mellark must be dead. Suddenly, it felt as if a great weight had been placed on his chest, pressing down on his ribs, his lungs, his heart. Though he was barely breathing as it was, it became harder, and harder, until he thought he may asphyxiate.

Cato balled his hands into fists, pain be damned. Hot tears stung his tightly closed eyes. He cried out, but his voice came out in a hoarse whisper, causing him more pain than both of his clenched hands combined. The pain was sharp. Clear.

The sensation brought him back into himself, and he relaxed, understanding that slowing his recovery would do nothing to save the boy from 12. He had failed in that foolish endeavor. He had saved no one.

Despair, self pity, loss, and fear began to sink in. '_Fight through it,'_ he told himself. A cold sweat broke out over his body, and he forced his eyes open, feeling weak as the tears he could not wish away trailed down his cheeks. '_Fight through it.'_

For maybe the first time in his life, Cato didn't feel like fighting. He had lost the will to do it. The wound was too deep, and the pain too profound, as if his very cells were screaming in agony. The pain killers didn't seem to be doing much besides putting him through the usual side effects - dry mouth, nausea, and disorientation. From a very young age, he had refused them - even when he broke his leg in training when he was 14, and it had to be set in front of his entire training class.

He had been taught, as a Career, how to die with dignity, and without fear. Career Tributes were told that there was a level of pain that told you it was time to die: a pain too great to fight through, too all-encompassing to escape.

"When you reach this level of pain," they were told, "You will understand. You will just know."

Cato could picture his mentor's face, solemn and serious as he instructed them, "Stop fighting. Let go. Let the pain wash over you, and to accept it."

Cato knew, exactly they way they said he would: he was dying. Surely, this is what it felt like to die. Nothing left to do but wallow in his pain until it was gone.

At his acceptance of his imminent death, his body grew complacent and exhausted, wanting only silence and rest. His eyes had finally adjusted to the light, and, though it was still hard to focus, Cato took in the room, slowly - sterile, white, and filled with machines fighting the losing battle to keep him alive.

In his stillness, his mind raced, filling with questions for which he had no answers: why wasn't anyone here? Where was his mentor? He had been instructed about what might happen after the Games if he won. His wounds would be treated, and he would be interviewed about the Games. Had he won? Would he have to be interviewed? How would they interview him if he died? What exactly had happened? Why had he been allowed to win, rather than Peeta, when he was the one who had broken the rules?

Then, stranger questions: what kind of Victor would Peeta Mellark have been? Foolish, he had no doubt, but he wondered if he would have been an outcast in the Victors' Arena the way he had been in the Tributes' Arena?

What kind of life had he imagined he would have with Peeta Mellark, had they both been allowed to win? He hadn't, of course. Hadn't, because imagining a life with Peeta Mellark would have meant that Cato had hoped for something, and he learned at a very young age that hope was for the weak, and the stupid. Careers didn't hope, they earned what came to them, took what they wanted.

Peeta Mellark, it had seemed, was hope itself. Maybe that's why he'd... done what exactly? Nothing. Failed.

Because, he remembered, Peeta Mellark was dead. He'd done nothing. That's not how it would look to Panem, to the Capitol, to his District. How would he explain his actions? How could explain why he hadn't just killed Peeta Mellark? It would have been so easy. Did he even know himself why he couldn't just kill him, as he had been trained to? As he had felt prepared to, before they'd gone into the Arena?

All he'd known, in that fleeting second when he'd stabbed himself, was that he couldn't leave the Arena without Peeta Mellark. Or apparently he could, since he had. It was foolish of him, to think that both of them might be allowed-

A shriek of pain so despondent, it made the hair on Cato's arms stand up, came from... from where? He jerked his head from side to side, his fighting spirit returning. He had to see every inch of the room, to be sure that-

The movement tore loose the tube in his throat that was helping him to breathe. The monitors went crazy, beeping in alarm, panicking. Almost immediately, as he choked on the blood that was drowning him, he felt a tingling in his head, a blackness creeping into the edges of his vision. He could just make out, in the hospital bed next to his, a blonde boy, draped in tubes, screaming awake from a nightmare.

Their eyes met. Impossible. Peeta Mellark. Alive.

Cato, with great effort, strained his entire body, as if just a touch of Peeta's skin would be the absolution Cato needed to let go, to let his pain deliver him into the throes of death. Cato could feel the tubes and needles tearing from his skin, leaving deep, jagged gashes and twisted veins in their wake, but mere physical pain seemed a distant echo compared to the screaming need to be just one inch closer to Peeta Mellark - who looked terrified out of his mind, but alive.

As Cato was, yet again, plunged into uncertain blackness, he heard Peeta utter a single word, so quietly that he was sure he spoke with the voice of death, calling him to come at last, "Cato..."


	3. 10:00

**Chapter 3: 10:00**

* * *

The next week Cato experienced in a series of waking nightmares and unending dreams. He never felt that he was asleep, yet, knew he could not be awake, since he had a clear memory of Clove coming to talk to him. Others, too, but not dead - his own Mentor, and Peeta's joke of a Mentor from 12, Haymitch Abernathy, came to speak with him, at him.

He tried to hear them, when they spoke, but instead heard a mixture of the beeping machines, Tracker Jacker hums, and the screaming of his fellow Tribute Mutts. He feared that he was being transformed, as they had - that the Capitol would remove his eyes, and maybe even his brain; they would implant them into a vile, unnatural creature, and he would be doomed to live out his life killing in the Games, yet never winning.

Though he never felt his hospital bed being moved, it must have been, because when he finally awoke - really awoke; he was no longer in the sterile room where he was certain he'd died, but instead, in a bedroom.

Cato blinked his eyes open, and realized that the ceiling he started at was a warm, mustard-seed yellow, rather than cold, unfeeling white. He startled to a sitting position. The blood rush to his head almost returned him to unconsciousness, but he took a deep inhale, and, holding it, he closed his eyes tightly. Slowly, he left his breath out in a hiss between his lips. Pressed his palms to his eyelids, he pushed slowly against the building tension behind his eyes.

After the feeling subsided, he found he could move fairly unhindered by dizziness, though stiffly. It felt as if he has slept 'between a rock and a hard place,' as the saying went in District 2. All of his muscles ached.

He took in the small room in which he had been laid, and noticed nothing extraordinary that would tip him off about what was happening, or where exactly he was. He glanced out the window, and saw only white - pure, unending, misty white that glowed in at him.

Maybe he was dead. He hadn't thought much about what would happen to him if he died in the Games. He had never really planned on losing. If he died, he would be dead. That's what they were taught as Careers: death, as an abstract concept, rather than a reality.

With an unfamiliar sinking in his gut, Cato realized that death was not an abstract concept to Clove... or Marvel, or maybe even him. He touched the window. It felt cold, and seemed to be humming - not loudly like the stinging Mutts in the Arena, but almost inaudibly, like a fluorescent light bulb. He realized, absently, that the humming he'd heard in his hospital room had been just that, and not Tracker Jackers, as he had supposed in his drugged state.

He took this as a good sign - a sign that he hadn't died, after all. He tried to center himself, to take comfort in this idea, but found that his only prevailing feeling was disconcerted, and empty.

A noise from the other room pulled Cato from his thoughts.

He tensed every muscle in his body, from tips to toes, ready for fight or flight. He took quick, silent steps to the door of his room, and to his surprise heard a whole mix of sounds - the muffled blaring of a television, the soft clinks of china knocking against china, and a dissonant, sad voice humming soft, disjointed notes.

Against his better judgment, Cato turned the knob, which he found to be unlocked, and pushed the door open. All the sounds became clearer, and a smell too - a fragrant broth of some kind hit Cato full in the senses as he stepped out into a modest apartment, sparsely furnished.

He started to try to comprehend this new reality, a stark contrast to the wilderness of the Games, and the white sterile room that smelled of death in which he originally awoke.

This apartment was simple, warm, inviting... it felt like home. Not his home, certainly, but _a_ home. He felt like an intruder. This feeling was increased tenfold when the sound of a metal ladle crashing to the floor alerted him to the source of the humming - which had of course, ceased at the surprise of him being there.

He whipped around to find the source of the sound. There stood Peeta Mellark, dressed in a simple sweater and pants, obviously uneven on his feet. His hands shook, and his face showed that he was surprised, if not flat out shocked, to see Cato standing there.

Cato took himself in, just briefly, to ensure that he was not exacerbating the boy's shock. He had looked better. Jagged wounds still in stitches in his hands and wrists reminded him of his embarrassing escape attempt from his hospital bed. He tried to cross his arms to hide the marks, and looked back up to Peeta, whose face had begun to twist into a look of - relief? He couldn't tell, the boy looked so sad, but his mouth showed a sad, accepting smile.

It didn't matter. Peeta Mellark looked so whole, so present, that Cato had to fight the urge to go to him, to touch him all over, to take him in, count his scars, and vow to make someone pay for each and every one of them. Instead, he put up his best front, straightening and stiffening away from Peeta, and scoffing, "What?"

Peeta shook his head, as if pulled from some daydream by Cato's voice, but couldn't find the words to say what he needed, since he remained silent.

"What are you staring at?" Cato asked again, trying to sound cutting. His voice quavered. He mentally kicked himself, but stayed stoic on the surface.

"It's just..." Peeta's voice sounded hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in days. "I've watched myself kill you..." He pointed to the TV, which had Caesar Flickermann, and someone else Cato didn't recognize, commentating on some of the footage from the Games. "Over and over... for days."

Cato didn't know what to say about this, or even what to think. He nodded, curtly.

"And then today... they bring you here." He choked the words out. "And they told me you'd wake up. I watched you sleep, felt your pulse, your breath... and then I came in here and watched myself kill you." Peeta took a step towards him, and Cato's breath quickened, his heart pumped, hard, and loud.

"Well, I'm not dead," Cato spat back. "And as far as I can tell neither are you. Don't you remember killing me? Or anything about what happened?"

"No," Peeta said quietly. "I don't remember anything after... Katniss..." At the mention of her name, his eyes filled with tears. Cato was relieved that Peeta didn't seem to remember his indiscretion, his refusal to kill him.

Peeta closed his eyes tightly, breathed deeply, and gritted his teeth through the words, "I figured I'd cook something, but I haven't been able to keep much down so... broth it is."

"Sure," Cato was surprised he'd thought to cook anything, but this brought him relief. Peeta had been trying to eat. He wasn't going to shut down, waste away, and leave Cato alone with himself.

They made their way to the table, and sat. Cato felt a stirring, a strangle lightness as he saw that a place had already been set for him at the table. Though Peeta had barely believed that he was alive, he had laid out soup and a roll, and a glass of water for him. He studied the boy over sips of water.

Peeta, to his credit was polite, and quiet, but avoidant. He didn't speak to Cato, didn't look at Cato; he just choked down the broth and bread. When they were each nearly three quarters of the way through their meal, Peeta set down his roll which he had been picking at, took a deep breath, and suddenly made intense, direct eye contact with Cato.

"I thought..." he tried. He faltered, cleared his throat, and continued, "Since we are stuck here... wherever this is, and since... we are the only people who know what the other has been through, that maybe we could try to be friends."

Cato smirked. '_This boy thinks he knows what I have been through?'_ Well, go ahead, let him think that. Cato weighed the options. He could agree to friendship, risk looking weak and foolish... or he could suffer in silence, pretending to hate the one he'd done so much to save.

What the hell, he made it through the Hunger Games; no one could call him weak, now... that is, if anyone knew that he made it through the Games. Peeta had said that he'd watched Cato die... more specifically, that he'd watched himself kill Cato, but there would be time for that later. If they were going to be 'friends' there would be plenty of time to talk.

"Friends?" Cato said the word slowly, as if pointing out the absurdity of its very diction. "You want us to be friends?"

"Well, yes," Peeta swallowed hard. "I thought that since we- since we're stuck here and-"

"Fine," Cato tried to make it seem nonchalant, a non-issue.

Peeta faltered. Cato could sense something, a sort of, drawing back, even though the boy didn't move. He realized, with shame, that what he sensed was hurt. Peeta was hurt. He was extending an olive branch of sorts, hoping for genuine companionship and Cato had shot him down, mercilessly, as he had been trained to do.

Cato opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of the words to say. He had never apologized to anyone for his words or his tone or for being the way that he was, ever... Except once. He tried mentally to bring himself back to the way he had spoken that time, the only time Clove had ever betrayed any sign of weakness to him.

It had been so silly, and so strange, coming from her. Girlish even, which is never a word he would have used to describe his District partner. The night of the interviews, Clove had looked beautiful, really stunning, in her dress. She had asked Cato how she looked, and he had blown her off with a joke. At the time, her reaction had confused him. She had sounded so facetious about the whole thing, but after what he said, she had sort of, deflated.

He hadn't apologized, really, just adjusted his tone when he finally admitted after her interview, "You look like a Victor," and he'd meant it, not that it mattered now.

He tried to bring himself back to that place, to find that tone again as he tried, "Yes. Sure, let's be friends." He'd still sounded impatient, gruff, but not altogether ingenuine. He risked a peek in Peeta's direction, and saw that the boy was staring at him.

Instead of making an issue of it, Cato chose to change the subject. He liked Peeta looking at him, and maybe he could get a conversation out of him. "Why are the windows white?"

"I- I think we're underground," Peeta shrugged. "It's artificial light."

"Does it ever go out?" Cato wondered aloud.

"Dims," Peeta mused, "At 10:00."

"Ah," Cato nodded. So much for conversation.

He turned to face the television, which was quietly blaring on, and saw, surely enough, Caesar and the other man were still talking about the Games. Who was the he? He looked familiar, now that Cato thought about it, but just couldn't quite-

"That's Beetee, one of the Victors from 3," Peeta's answer to his unspoken question caught Cato by surprise. He turned his gaze back to the boy.

"Why?"

"Because the cameras went out."

"Went out?" Cato almost choked on the words. He wasn't even sure that was possible.

"Yeah," Peeta nodded gravely, and dropped his gaze to the roll he was still picking at. "Right- before I killed you, I guess."

Cato was struck mute. The hairs on the back of his neck all stood on end. Something was wrong. He eyed the TV suspiciously, and saw the footage to which Peeta was referring: a grainy, far off shot of the boys on the Cornucopia, just before Cato had taken the arrow from Peeta, Peeta reaching up and stabbing Cato in the throat. Then blackness.

The commentators' faces appeared, and Cato listened, as they explained, "Yes, see, there was an... electrical storm happening outside of the arena at the time." Beetee's nervous, clipped speech made him sound even less convincing. "The surge killed our main cameras surrounding the Cornucopia, and... only our back up camera caught the-"

"THE UNEXPECTED CLIMAX OF THE GAMES!" Caesar cut in, unable to contain his excitement any longer. "I mean, who could have seen it coming? I still get a chill every time I see Peeta suddenly come to life and jab that arrow into Cato's throat! What an unexpected turn! Such bravery!" Caesar swooned.

"Yes," Beetee seemed out of his element as he said quietly, "I was an underdog in my Games too."

"Well fabulous, fabulous," Caesar clapped Beetee on the back. "And yours were a hoot too! Thank goodness we have those backup cameras, or we would have missed this Victory entirely!"

"Yes," Beetee blinked too many times, then, sheepishly, "We'll have to see what Peeta was thinking when he- when you finally get to interview him next week."

Peeta choked, and Cato glanced back in his direction, concerned. He was alright, but staring wide-eyed at the TV.

"How am I supposed to tell them what I was thinking?" Peeta sounded terrified, his voice completely drowning out the mindless conversation on the television. "I- I can't even remember..." His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and Cato, before he could stop himself, reached across the table and held them, tightly, in his.

"Just tell them whatever they want to hear, okay?" He was surprised at the strength in his own voice.

Peeta, unshaken by Cato's touch, still had his eyes trained on the TV. "That's what Haymitch said I should do- but, it's..."

Suddenly, he ripped his hands from Cato's, and turned on him, "Why are we both here?" It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.

"What?" Cato was taken aback by Peeta's sudden change in mood.

Peeta was on his feet, chair clattering to the floor as he backed away from Cato, "Why are we both alive? Why aren't you giving an interview about killing me?"

"Because I didn't!" Cato found himself shouting now, too.

"If I didn't kill you, and you didn't kill me," Peeta looked about ready to pick up a knife and have it out right here in the kitchen, "Then where did that footage come from?"

"I don't know," Cato admitted lamely.

"WHERE?" Peeta demanded, trembling. "What really happened?"

"I- I don't-," Cato started, but then fell silent.

Peeta's eyes went wide, and his voice dropped to a whisper, "You know something."

"No more than you," Cato kept his tone even.

"What do you know?" Peeta took a step towards him, and Cato rose to his feet, knocking his chair away.

"Nothing." Cato bit the word, making it as clear as possible that he had no interest in arguing with Peeta - in talking to Peeta at all - about the matter.

Peeta took another step towards Cato, and instinct took over; Cato was across the room in a second, pressing Peeta against the wall with his forearm, a handful of Peeta's sweater clenched tightly in his sore fist.

"I. Don't," Cato spaced his words, for emphasis, "Know. Anything. Got it?"

Peeta studied him, blue eyes wild, and sad.

Cato realized, with a start, their proximity; the smell of Peeta, the feeling of his chest rising and falling underneath Cato's grip. The way his lips parted, set in a slightly dazed expression, was intoxicating.

Without knowing exactly what he was doing, Cato leaned in and planted his lips on Peeta's. A kiss, lingering, and softer than any tone Cato had ever used in his life. Brief, and so shocking, that Peeta couldn't even protest.

Fleeting was the feeling of wholeness the swelled in Cato's chest as, just for a moment, their two breaths were one. He could still taste Peeta on his lips as he released his grip on the boy's shirt, and spun on his heel away from him.

Peeta remained flattened against the wall as Cato stomped back to the room where he had awoken and slammed the door. He locked it behind him and threw himself on the bed.

Then, the white light from the window dimmed.

10:00.


	4. What Happens When

**Chapter 4: What Happens When**

* * *

Sleep eluded Cato that night. Peeta's sobbing was his only companion in the near darkness as he mulled over the idea that he _was_ dead - for all intents and purposes. He had lost the Games - died, according to his District, according to the whole nation. He was alive only in this limited, claustrophobic reality that got a whole lot smaller the second he kissed Peeta Mellark.

Why, then, was he still here? Breathing? Alive?

Peeta's sobs quieted, and changed into screaming nightmares. The raw, animal pain and all-consuming fear was so apparent in Peeta's tortured howls that Cato could vividly envision him transforming into a wolf Mutt in the other room. Cato relished the idea of this uncanny blonde creature, blue eyes shining, scratching down the door and clawing out his throat.

Even such a gruesome death, which he had felt lucky to narrowly escape in the Arena, seemed a better alternative than this tiny, secret existence, save for one thing: that he had saved Peeta Mellark, and that he was here with him, living this limited life with him.

Cato let out a growl in the darkness. Peeta was not living this life _with_ him, only alongside him. They weren't really friends, weren't really going through this together. Peeta was a Victor. Peeta had won. Peeta could leave... Leave Cato alone in this tiny box to live out the rest of his life, or more likely, go completely insane from loneliness, boredom, or both.

No. That wasn't right. He realized, suddenly, why he was still alive. This was his punishment.

Death would have been a swift end to his humiliation, to his pain. This was far worse. To be overtaken by the very thing that he had been unable to overcome in the Arena - Peeta Mellark, who had loved, who would always love, the Girl on Fire, would continue to elude Cato, would remain as unreachable in as he was in the Hunger Games - perhaps even grow more unreachable each day. Cato's own personal Hunger Games was just beginning, would never end.

He knew that nothing that would ever pass between them. Even if he and Peeta Mellark actually managed become friends, friendship alone could ever satiate the need he felt for him.

He would live a life unsatisfied... He would _starve_ to death.

Cato's laughter rang out, cold and mirthless in the dimness of the night. He rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes. He was still in the Arena, still in the Games. The thought made him feel proud, whole - more alive than he'd felt since he got out.

He was born for the Hunger Games, raised for the Hunger Games. His enemy underestimated the staying power he knew he had.

_'You want me to starve?'_

_'Bring it on.'_

That night, Cato slept his first dreamless sleep since the Games, sincebefore the Games. Each and every night since the Reaping, vivid, nocturnal visions had plagued him. Cato had been taught that sleep was a necessity. It was not something to be enjoyed, or a time for whim, or for fear. It was a recharge. It should be done with maximum efficiency.

Clove had made fun of him, in the Games. Even so, she was always right there; ready to talk him back to sleep when he awoke, whether poised for a fight from a nightmare or punch-drunk with some fading pleasantry. He had always thought of Clove as an ally of sorts, a comrade. He found himself regretting that he had not regarded her for what she was until he held her in his arms as she drew her last breath.

Clove was his best friend. His only friend.

He wished she were still here, to talk to. She would be able to make sense of his situation, and to make light of it. Clove had the sharpest wit - a cutting humor that no one seemed to appreciate but him. The thought of the speckling of freckles across her nose wrinkling as she smiled brought an ache to his chest.

Cato was surprised that she was his first thought as he awoke - not Peeta, and not his current predicament. He embraced the ache as he wished he could Clove, and took it as a sign that she was with him - her courage, her strength, since he couldn't seem to find his own. Hers turned from an ache into a warmth inside him, encouraging him to face what he had done - the kiss.

He would walk out, and stare Peeta Mellark in the face, unflinchingly. That was the only way to move past it, truly move past it. He rose, dressed, and bravely pushed the door open.

Even with all of Clove's bravery nestled inside him, he was floored by what greeted him. Peeta Mellark never ceased to render him speechless and worthless. Though Cato knew, with not a single shred of doubt, that Peeta had been up half the night crying, the scent of fresh baked biscuits, which he had somehow missed in his morning stupor greeted him as he entered the common area of the apartment.

His eyes found Peeta, crouched by the oven, dusted from head to foot with flour, pulling from the oven a tray of flaky, golden biscuits.

Cato's voice came thick, and not without effort as he teased, "What are you doing?"

Peeta stood, startled, and his eyes met Cato's. His mouth was hanging open, just slightly, in concentration, sweat kissing his brow. "I- I don't know," he admitted breathlessly. He sounded exhilarated. "I haven't woken up wanting to bake since-" His voice faltered, and his grew distant and blank. "For a long time." His voice had lost all of its previous energy.

Cato had no doubt that whatever memory had called him away was about the Girl on Fire. The thought should have made him angry, but it just made him feel more exhausted. Besides, wasn't he himself thinking of his own fallen comrade this morning?

"Well," Cato moved to the table, dropping his gaze from Peeta's face. Staring into the eyes that cared nothing for him proved a bit too much this early in the day for Cato. He busied himself picking at a split in the wood of the table. "What are we waiting for?"

"Nothing I suppose," Peeta said sheepishly, emptying the biscuits from the pan into a bowl lined with a napkin. He flipped the corners of the napkin in, to contain the heat, Cato supposed.

Then, Peeta took his time gathering up a jar of jam from the fridge, honey from the cupboard, and butter in a small dish from the counter. He balanced them all precariously in his arms and began to hobble toward the table. Cato realized, with a start, that Peeta was full-on limping.

A quick inspection of his bare feet revealed one to be fleshy, human, and unharmed. The other was flesh colored plastic, and seemed unsteady. It was fake, Cato realized, with a shock. One of Peeta's feet, his leg - though Cato was unsure how high up, had been replaced.

He was on his feet and at Peeta's side, relieving his arms of most of their burden mumbling, "Here, let me help," before he even knew what he was doing.

Peeta awkwardly relinquished his armload, and Cato set it on the table unceremoniously.

Then Peeta sat, and busied himself arranging the spread on the table, avoiding Cato's eyes. Cato waited, eyes locked on Peeta's face, until finally he could swivel the spoon in the honey jar no longer. Peeta's eyes chanced a quick glance at Cato's, and he was caught.

Maintaining the eye contact in which had trapped Peeta, Cato gave a nod to his leg. He didn't even need to speak the question out loud. Peeta knew what he was asking, and, somewhere in his own mind, he knew that the answer would be, "It's..." Peeta mumbled, "It's from the cut... after the Tracker Jackers..."

From the cut Cato had given him.

Cato nodded, throat tight. "I won't apologize," he spat. Whether he was sorry or not was irrelevant, it would do nothing to bring back Peeta's leg. He flexed his jaw and challenged Peeta to ask for an apology with an icy stare.

His eyes were met with softness, gentleness. Peeta's eyes, clear and seemingly ever-sad, actually smiled as he said, "I don't want you to apologize. You were just doing what you thought you had to." After a quiet moment, he dropped his eyes as he spoke, "We all were."

From Peeta's dropped gaze and changed tone, Cato could tell that he didn't truly apply the same logic to himself.

"You forgive me for what I did in the arena, but not yourself?" Cato bristled. He didn't want to talk about this. He always thought he would be proud of his time in the arena, boastful, but every time it came up, his mouth went dry and his words stuck in his throat.

"No," Peeta said it so quietly, it took Cato a moment to realize he had spoken at all. "I will never..." he trailed off. Cato wondered whether he was thinking of the few whom he'd killed, or if he was thinking about his inability to protect his teammate.

A similar feeling of guilt had been nagging Cato in the back of his mind, but he had done his best to ignore it. Clove had volunteered, as had the Girl on Fire. They knew what they were in for. At least, this is what he told himself.

"Let's eat," Peeta offered weakly.

After the morbidity of their conversation, Cato would have thought the biscuits might taste like ash in his mouth. Truthfully, he'd never had biscuits before. Those in his District on the Career path followed a strict diet from birth. Biscuits were considered a waste of calories, containing little to no substance or nutritional value.

His mentor had told him that he could eat whatever he wanted, when he became a Victor.

His first bite was like nothing he'd ever tasted before - buttery, flaky, and still warm. A luxury. It was like he imagined a cookie might taste. He closed his eyes, trying to compare the flavor and texture with the grain-heavy cracker-bread they ate with their meals when he lived in District 2. There was no comparison.

To his dismay, he found himself wondering what Clove would have thought of the taste. Even that thought couldn't erase his enjoyment of the taste, but his stomach knotted, protesting even another crumb. Cato swallowed his mouthful hard and set the biscuit down.

What was wrong with him?

"It doesn't taste good?" Peeta's voice brought him back to reality.

Cato's head fell to his chest, feeling heavy suddenly as he dismissed, "No, they're fine, it's just-" And then, it happened. The knot in his stomach crept its way into his throat.

No.

He clenched his hands tight around the edge of the table to stop their shaking.

No.

He ground his teeth together, and squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could, trying to force his body to shut down, manual override and keep from...

A single tear stubbornly escaped, and began a slow descent down his cheek.

He kept his eyes shut, willing the world to fall away so he wouldn't have to face up to this pathetic display of weakness. His ears were ringing from all the pressure in his head, but he pressed on, hoping he could stop the rest of the tears that were threatening to spill from his unwilling eyes.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd cried.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his imagined solitude.

His eyes flew open, as flood gates, and suddenly, Cato couldn't stop the tears that came, or the terrible choking sobs that came with them, or the anger, the fear, the deep, unrelenting sadness. Peeta stood by his chair, staring at him, transfixed, terrified, and unmoving, save for the hand he'd placed on Cato's shoulder, which held fast, even as Cato tried to pull away.

Cato completely turned his mind off, the way he'd been taught in meditation. He would try a complete reset from his breath up. He closed his eyes and pictured nothing, nothing, nothing. He felt his face go slack and his body make tiny, deliberate rocking motions to complement his breath, which was steadying quickly - despite the occasional gasping interruption.

He was able to forget Clove, to forget the Games, to forget District 2, and the biscuits, everything except the hand on his shoulder that just wouldn't let him go.

He opened his eyes, and Peeta was still there, studying his face, concerned.

Cato was calm now, and, daring a glance at the clock to notice that nearly 20 minutes had gone by since they sat down, he rose, jerking his shoulder away from Peeta's grip.

"Are you alright?" Peeta was careful to keep pity out of his voice. The question still bothered Cato.

"Fine."

Peeta accepted his answer in silence, but wouldn't take his eyes off of him.

Cato found himself frozen in Peeta's gaze, feeling smaller, and weaker, and more vulnerable with each passing moment of silence between them. The progress he had made in mediation was quickly lessening, simply by Peeta's eyes on him. He opened his mouth to tell him off, but what came out instead, in a harsh, barking tone, was, "I miss Clove."

Peeta nodded, evenly. He responded with an honest question. "Was she, I mean, were you two-?"

"No," Cato shook his head solemnly. His response was harsh, but not unsympathetic, "No one is stupid enough to go into the Games with someone they love, except you."

"Then why did you kiss me?" Peeta asked him.

Cato froze. He had almost forgotten. He had been so prepared to defend his actions when he left the bedroom that morning that when it hadn't happened, he'd somehow forgotten altogether.

Peeta stepped toward Cato, who found himself unable to move away, drawn to Peeta by their proximity. He held his ground, but was helpless when Peeta took another step and demanded, "Why couldn't you kill me?"

"I- I didn't... You saw what happened, you just-" Cato tried to borrow the Capitol's lies.

"If you didn't have feelings for anyone in the Hunger Games then why couldn't you just win?" Peeta stopped at arms' length from Cato, and stared into his eyes unabashedly. He must have remembered, at least enough to know that Cato couldn't go through with it when he finally had the chance to kill him.

Cato studied his face. His blue eyes, pained, his lips set, his brow furrowed. He seemed determined to get the truth from Cato, and Cato felt trapped, unable to say what it was that happened, yet unable to lie further.

Peeta was just too damned beautiful.

Cato reached a shaking hand towards Peeta's unyielding face. Instead of a real answer, he gave Peeta one of the riddles he'd learned as a boy. "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"

His fingers barely brushed Peeta's cheek, and that same wave of feeling, which had possessed him to kiss Peeta, washed over him - that same shuddering ache deep in his spine. Cato never learned the answer to that riddle, but he had a feeling that here, in this tiny apartment with Peeta, perhaps they could figure it out.

He leaned in, and, for the second time in 24 hours, kissed Peeta.


	5. Tell Me

**Chapter 5: Tell Me**

* * *

Peeta kissed him back.

A slight tilt of his chin brought an almost indiscernible amount pressure against Cato's lips, but it was there.

Peeta was kissing him back.

Cato pressed against Peeta, guiding him backwards until a soft 'thump' betrayed that Peeta's back had hit the wall. Cato pressed his hands to either side of Peeta, flattening them against the cool, smooth surface of the wall.

Then, Cato deepened the kiss. Tasted Peeta, felt his lips, his teeth, his tongue against his own. It sent shivers down his spine and brought an ache to his chest. Cato had been holding himself at arms length, leaning in to where their lips connected them, too afraid to let himself go. The distance between seemed almost magnetic, compelling him to close the gap between their bodies, and press against Peeta.

The boy's hands were trapped between them, and Cato could feel him struggling as he broke their kiss to gasp for air. As their lips parted, Peeta's stayed slightly open, looking windswept and a little lost. He too, was short of breath.

Cato found his words, and said them with force, purpose. "Tell me you want me."

Peeta swallowed, hard, and began to speak. Cato didn't want excuses. He slammed his fist into the wall, breaking into the plaster a few inches. It hurt, but pain was something Cato knew how to handle. He wanted pain. He didn't want uncertainty.

Peeta looked at him helplessly.

Cato looked at him expectantly. He kissed him again, more aggressively this time, leaving Peeta's lips raw, and quivering.

"I want you." Peeta's words were almost inaudible, but it was good enough for Cato. Hearing him say those three words was like a drink of water after weeks of thirst. A triumph in his personal Hunger Games. A gift from a sponsor.

Peeta's eyes were searching his, for what, Cato had no idea, so he closed his, in an attempt to shut out the boy who he couldn't seem to shake, not in waking, not in dreams, and not in meditation. Without Peeta's face, it was only their bodies. Their bodies pressed into each other to the point where it was hard to breath, but still Cato wanted to be closer.

He withdrew his hand, bleeding, from the crumbling wall and touched Peeta's face, his hair, his arms; Cato found that with each brush of skin, an electric current travelled up his fingers and through his body, setting his insides afire with a kind of excitement he'd never felt before.

As long as he didn't look, couldn't see, didn't have to imagine himself through Peeta's eyes, it was okay.

The feeling coursing through his veins was seductive, especially when, to Cato's shock, Peeta began to touch him too.

If touching Peeta was an electrical current, being touched by Peeta was an electrical storm. Cato shuddered and writhed and moaned in Peeta's hands, and found that he could no longer keep his eyes closed. Cato's eyes opened and met Peeta's, which were still steady, strong, and sad at the center of the maelstrom of sensory stimuli that Cato was being subjected to.

Everything seemed hazy and dreamy except Peeta's eyes, which kept Cato grounded, though it seemed to him that Peeta's touch was setting off fireworks behind his eyes, beneath his skin, and in the very pit of his being.

Cato had never felt, experienced, imagined anything like this.

"Tell me that you need me." It slipped out involuntarily.

Peeta's answer came without hesitation, "I can't."

Everything inside of Cato froze. He took 2 steps away from Peeta and, almost without pause, turned on his heel and walked toward his bedroom. Peeta stayed pressed against the wall. Everything inside Cato was numb, like how you feel right before the impact of a long fall, right before the pain sets in.

He knew he needed to get a door between himself and Peeta before-

"Wait!" Peeta was in step behind him.

-The pain: instant and stabbing, spreading from his stomach to his limbs in a matter of seconds – just like an impact.

"Please, Cato-" Peeta's voice became muffled, as if there was a barrier between them. Only when Cato felt his back against a flat surface did he know that there was, in fact, a door between them. The pain was so all-consuming that he hadn't felt himself close it.

"Don't! Please don't," Peeta beat on the door a few a times, pleading with Cato that he was sorry and trying to convince him to come out. Cato felt his knees buckling. Peeta began to cry.

Cato slid to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on them. Cato ignored Peeta's voice until it became just part of the noise, like distant thunder, rolling, inconsistent, and finally, silent.

Cato stayed in that position all day, motionless.

Maybe he slept, maybe he dreamt, maybe he meditated. Hours passed like seconds. Cato only ached.

It was the sound of a door closing that finally snapped him from his daze. The door had closed... meaning that it had first opened, but which door? He listened for the running water than would indicate the bathroom door, nothing. He listened for any sound of Peeta at all.

Nothing.

He was on his feet and out his door in a matter of seconds. The apartment was empty. Cato checked every room. Peeta was nowhere to be found. Cato even called for him, and tried to open the door that lead outside - wherever 'outside' was. The door was locked, of course, and his calls yielded no response.

He was alone. Peeta was gone.

Cato wondered how long it would take him to go completely mad. His instinct was to try to keep this from happening. They'd been taught to play the waiting game in their training to become Careers, as often portions of the Games were spent waiting people out. He thought about doing some training - push ups or something, but the thought seemed to fatigue him without him even having to act on it.

What was the point? Madness seemed a welcome ally when compared with loneliness.

He returned to his position, knees pulled up to his chest, forehead resting against them, and back pressed against the door - to the outside this time, not his room. He couldn't be sure how long he waited; it could have been days.

A knock at the door startled him from his stupor. His blood suddenly rushed through his veins, as if he were coming back from the dead, and his heart pounded in his ears. Was it Peeta, returning? The Capitol, come to finish him off?

Cato took a few steps back, away from the door, and waited.


	6. Deeds

**Chapter 6: Deeds**

* * *

Cato sat still, and silent. Patiently, carefully, he eyed his new companion up and down, sizing him up, trying to assess if he was real.

A man who claimed, and appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be Haymitch Abernathy sat across the small table from Cato - in the very chair that Peeta had sat the few meals they'd shared. Cato watched him now with the same mistrust he had when he'd first entered this apartment, which, for all Cato knew was not a real place, but rather a far corner in his mad mind.

Could he really be here? He didn't quite recognize the old Mentor without a cloud of liquor fumes hanging around him. He had dark hair, grey eyes, and dingy colored skin, like that worthless Girl on Fire from District 12. He considered that Haymitch and Katniss could have been related. He seemed to have the same eyes, somehow. Not just the same color, but the same. As if the same person looked out at him through them.

Cato was determined to stay silent, until this intruder stated his business. Unfortunately, Haymitch Abernathy was more patient than Cato could have imagined. He was sober, and so his entire body shook, but beyond that, he hadn't made a sound since he had arrived nearly 45 minutes ago.

Cato had submitted to keeping track of time over the course of this stranger's visit to ensure that he wasn't crazy. If he watched too much more time go by without either of them speaking, however, he may have to assume that this Mentor in front of him was nothing more than a refracted bit of madness, made whole by Cato's loneliness.

"You're sure interested in what that clock has to say." Haymitch's voice, low and spiteful growled forth from the man. So he was real after all.

Cato clenched his jaw in response.

"Look, you might have all the time in the world to waste here, but I'd like to get back to drinking myself to death, so, are you gonna have this conversation with me, or should I just go?"

"What conversation?" Cato relinquished, through gritted teeth.

"Don't you want to know where Peeta's gone?"

Cato didn't answer.

"I'm going to make this a lot easier for you," Haymitch smiled, without the slightest hint of humor in his voice. "I know what happened. I saw the footage. You stabbed yourself in the throat to keep from killing Peeta. Your Mentor and I, we- we had to help figure out how to clean up the mess you made."

Cato felt a stab of suspicion at the mention of his Mentor. He spoke, despite himself. "Where- my Mentor. Where is he? Why isn't he here instead of you?"

"Psh," Haymitch leaned back in his chair. "I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss me. I'm the only friend you've got left, besides that stupid boy. According to your Mentor, you died in the Hunger Games, dishonorably, like a coward, and that's exactly what he told your family, your District."

Cato carefully kept his face composed, even as his heart pounded in his chest painfully. As a career, he had learned to mask his feelings, but unfortunately, he had never quite managed to stop his body from reacting. He swallowed, which was more difficult than it should have been, and tried to sort his thoughts: his entire District, his family; they thought he was a coward - a dead coward. His Mentor had abandoned him.

He took a deep breath in, clenching his fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. As he exhaled, he clenched his fists tighter, bleeding his feelings out across his palms. His face remained statuesquely calm as he tried to grasp Haymitch's words, "What do you mean Peeta's my friend?"

"That- requires a bit more explanation." Haymitch rose from his chair, and moved to one of the cupboards, snatching out a glass mug and slamming it on the table. From his wrinkled jacket, Haymitch pulled a small bottle and uncorked it. Then he poured its contents into the mug.

The fumes hit Cato immediately, burning his nose and eyes. Involuntarily, he released his clenched fists. The liquid looked innocent enough - clear, like water, but Cato understood immediately, that whatever it was, it was similar to his District's Stone Quarry Whiskey. His father, whom Cato regarded as a loathsome waste of space, drank it almost constantly.

Cato looked slowly from the glass to Haymitch's grinning face. Haymitch was watching him, toying with him even. "Do you mind?" Haymitch asked him, as though Cato could stop him from drinking the noxious stuff. Cato just wrinkled his nose in response.

He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his bleeding hands into his shirt, and adopted Haymitch's laid back position in his own chair.

Haymitch took a drink from the mug, and his face reflected what Cato imagined - that is tasted about as appealing as it smelled. Haymitch set the mug down, carefully lining up the bottom of the mug with the circle mark it had created on the surface of the table.

When he finally looked up and met Cato's eye, Cato found himself drawing breath, taken aback by the intensity in the old man's eyes.

"We gave him the chance... to simplify everything." Haymitch began, and then shook his head as if this were an insufficient place to start. "They were going to kill you. That was going to be their solution - to let you die, but I convinced them that… a lifetime of wanting something you can't have was worse." He pause, for dramatic effect, "I am the only Mentor ever to bring home two Tributes from the Games - not that anyone but you, he, and a few others will probably ever know that."

"Why?" Cato wasn't self-pitying, but rather, genuinely curious when he asked, "Why save me?"

"Peeta isn't like all you. He's not a killer, not really."

"He killed people-" Cato began to argue, but Haymitch cut him off with a hand.

"But he's not like you. He can't... he _won't_ make it alone. He was never going to leave that arena by himself, or we'd have another Annie Cresta on our hands."

Cato scoffed. He had a great deal of contempt for that sad excuse for a Victor. In his eyes, Peeta was nothing like her.

Haymitch ignored him, and continued. "I care about the boy. Didn't want to see that happen." Haymitch took another drink from the cup, and set it back down with the same care. "So we saved you too. That was where your Mentor's involvement ended. Since then, you've been monitored."

Cato couldn't help but let his eyes widen with surprise. He had assumed they were being left to rot, or possibly kill each other in some type of plush prison. He hadn't imagined they were being watched.

"Surprised?" Haymitch raised an accusing eyebrow.

Cato nodded carefully.

"Today, Peeta was taken to do his post-Games interview. He's there now. Do you want to watch?" Haymitch nodded over his shoulder towards the television, but Cato immediately, and a little too enthusiastically, shook his head no. He didn't want to hear Caesar Flickerman and Peeta make jokes about his dishonorable death. He didn't want to watch Clove die again at the hands of that savage. He didn't want to see Peeta- well; he didn't want to see Peeta at all, actually.

Haymitch put up his hands, showing his intentions to be peaceful. He folded them across his chest, leaned back in his chair, and continued, "Today, Peeta was given a choice. The Capitol, they said he can go home if he wants, when he interviews and everything are over."

Cato straightened up, listening intently now.

"But, if he did that, you would be killed."

A cold sweat broke out over his palms, stinging his cuts, and Cato's senses began to heighten. Was he in danger? Was Haymitch here to sentence him to death, and then ensure that it was carried out? He chanced a glance in either direction. Haymitch just kept on talking.

"He had... another choice." The strained tone of Haymitch's voice caught Cato's full attention, and his gaze snapped back to the man's serious face. "Tonight, during his interview, Peeta will denounce his District. He'll say, now that Katniss is dead, he's got nothing left to go back to. Nothing left to call home. The Capitol will take him in, and he will live here now."

Nothing Haymitch was saying seemed to make any sense. The Capitol would never let Peeta change citizenship like that, would they? Was the nation that damn compelled by the Star-Crossed Lovers from District 12?

"He chose to save you," Haymitch said, plainly. "He will never be able to go home again."

Cato snarled, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought that maybe if you knew just how close you came to death, you might give up on your pride and be an actual companion to the person who is the sole reason that you are alive."

Cato was silent once more. Mute with the implications of everything Haymitch had said.

Haymitch downed the last of his drink, and, though there were only clinging droplets left, the smell somehow got stronger. It burned Cato's eyes. He finally wiped his hand across them, quickly, reluctantly. In the time it took him, Haymitch had stood.

"You are not my concern anymore, boy. I just thought we should have one conversation before I gave you up. You are Peeta's now."

"WHAT?" This sentence caught Cato off-guard. He was on his feet, the chair he had been sitting on clattering to the ground behind him.

"You _belong_ to him. He signed a deed on your life tonight. As I said, he is the only thing standing between you and what you can bet would be a slow and painful death at the hands of the Capitol. He _won_ you in the Hunger Games, and you belong to him, like an Avox. If you're lucky, they'll let you keep your tongue, but I wouldn't count on it."

Cato felt as if his tongue had been removed. He couldn't seem to speak, or swallow. All he could do was try to comprehend that his life was no longer his own, that he no longer had any chance at returning to life, or even death, by his own volition. From now on, his life would be determined by Peeta Mellark.

"Thank you." He said to Haymitch's back as he opened the door to the outside. It wasn't much to say, but it was the truth. At least there was no more uncertainty. He knew where he stood, even if he resented it.

Haymitch paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder as he explained, "He'll be coming back for you in two days. You two will live here until the Victory Tour, and then more permanent arrangements will be made. Try to make the most of it until then. Learn to live with each other, because you don't have a choice anymore. You got that?" His scowl showed that Cato's behavior so far had not impressed him.

Cato nodded numbly.

The door shut behind Haymitch, leaving Cato alone once again. Cato walked into his bedroom, and looked around it. The bland decoration served as a reminder of his confinement. This was his life now.

As his eyes fell back to the bed, in his peripheral vision, he could swear he saw Clove, human as he knew her, but with a mouthful of razor sharp, dripping wet mutt fangs. He began to scream. Cato screamed until he thought he would throw up. Every muscle, every cell in his was body tensed, pushing out the noise, the consciousness from his body. Finally, he screamed himself into unconsciousness.


	7. Coming Home

**Chapter 7: Coming Home**

* * *

Cato awoke.

The inescapable, artificial light coming from the windows was still dim. It must be early – before 6:00. The lights were dimmed from 10:00 at night until 6:00 in the morning. He had learned this in his day alone in the apartment. He had, in fact, spent nearly the entire 24 hours awake, pacing, like a caged animal, memorizing every detail of the enclosure in which he was being kept - when the lights changed, where the pipes ran overhead, how many tiles in the kitchen; everything.

It was easier to fill his head with useless thoughts than to try to comprehend what he had been told the day before by Haymitch - that his life no longer belonged to him, but to Peeta, the unattainable prize in his own person Hunger Games.

The riddle he'd spoken to dodge Peeta's question only a few days earlier seemed to surface in his mind every few hours or so. _'What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?'_ It seemed that Cato was fated to spend the rest of his life discovering the answer, and how it applied to his situation with Peeta.

He mused over which of them represented which part of the riddle. Was, he, Cato the unstoppable force? He liked to think so, because this position sounded so powerful, but for that reason, he found himself assessing that this title probably could be more accurately assigned to Peeta. Afterall, wasn't it Peeta who held all the power in their situation?

So what did it mean it to be an immovable object? To Cato, being 'immovable' seemed synonymous with being extraordinarily stubborn. So what would happen when Peeta's unstoppable force met his immovability? Everything? Nothing?

It didn't matter. It _really_ didn't.

Cato knew, even as the thought continued to circulate, that he was only fixating on it as a way to avoid thinking about the real issue at hand. Wasn't that how he had always encountered that particular riddle? He had been taught it at a very young age as a way to clear his mind during meditation. As a 5 year old, being taught to think about nothing is difficult, but being taught to ponder a question with no answer was simple – unless you were Cato.

All of the other children in his training class had had no issue with this lesson, but it had never seemed to work that way it was supposed to for him. Rather than repeating the question to himself over and over again until it became irrelevant, as he had been taught, he always tried to solve it. Repeating it had only driven him to madness.

He had never let it go, even as he grew older and learned to meditate properly, with no prompting question. He had even talk to Clove about it in the Arena. Just once, later on in the Games, when things had stagnated, he brought it up. At the time, hunting at night was unnecessary and unwise, and so the two of them spent, as they had anticipated, days, waiting for something to happen.

He and Clove had sparred, showed off for their sponsors, and hunted a little in the surrounding woods, but eventually all of that grew boring, and they sufficed to talking. They spent hours by their fire, which they, unlike the other Tributes, never had to be afraid to build. It gave them time to talk with each other, make jokes, tell stories… Cato never imagined that it would be his fondest memory from the Games, but now, he longed for Clove, wished they'd spent more time, a lifetime, having such conversations.

One night, in the early hours of the morning before the sun rose, he had whispered the riddle, mindlessly.

"What are you mumbling about?" Clove had asked him.

He had repeated the riddle to her, only to have her laugh in his face, not harshly, but warmly, as she liked to do when she thought Cato was being foolish. He used to hate it, thinking she was mocking him. Only now did he realize that she was probably laughing at him as a way of showing endearment, never having been taught how to display affection in any other way.

"What are you thinking about that for?" She had poked the fire with stick, and their short lived discussion of the riddle almost died, until she added. "I think… idiots like Mellark and that Fire Girl happen."

"What do you mean?" Cato had been hesitant to talk about Peeta at the time, worried that even speaking his name might betray his inner conflict regarding their former ally to Clove. "You mean that whole, 'star-crossed lovers' foolishness?"

"No. Not that Capitol-constructed fluff, but something like, balance. Or more… cancelling out. If a force is unstoppable and an object is immovable, and they meet, I think they stop being unstoppable and immovable. They lose the essence of themselves and become simply an object and a force. Stupid, right?"

"What about the opposite?" Cato had dared to think aloud. "Could they stop being… an object and a force and just be… immovable and unstoppable?"

"That doesn't even make sense, Cato." She'd flicked him on the forehead, and then added, "It's just a childish riddle. Go to sleep."

The thought of Clove and the Games brought Cato back to his senses. Knowing the answer wouldn't help him face Peeta Mellark when he walked in the door that day. Knowing the answer wouldn't help him get through the next 6 months in this apartment, or the rest of his life as Peeta's lap dog. Being an immovable object wouldn't help him. Being a stupid Career Tribute obsessed with the answer to a childish riddle wouldn't help him. Fading away into memories of his best friend Clove wouldn't help him. So what would?

He decided he had tackled enough lofty thoughts in the past week to last him his entire lifetime. This was not Cato. Thinking, feeling, talking; these were not things on which Cato had ever wasted this much of his energy.

Action. That's what he needed. If only this apartment weren't so damn small. After he'd spent hours the previous day memorizing it, the space seemed smaller than ever. If only he could go outside. He longed for fresh air, for sunlight, for realness. This plastic prison felt stale and cheap. Without Peeta here it didn't feel like a home at all.

Fueled by his newfound contempt for the space, Cato trained for a bit to lift his spirits. He did push-ups, improvised some free weight exercises lifting furniture, and ran in place. After a couple of hours of this, he was feeling considerably more clear-headed.

The lights had come up, and Cato even turned on the television for some background noise. He flipped channels until he found some mindless children's programming, making certain to avoid any channels playing recaps from the interviews with Peeta or the Games.

He showered, and searched the drawers in his room for something to wear. Like his compartment on the train, and his living quarters in the training center, he found it filled with clothing in his size. There was nothing as fancy as what he wore before the Games, but even so, he found a slate-grey long-sleeved top and a pair of pants and put them on.

Working out, cleaning up, getting dressed – it made him feel more normal than he had in days.

He chanced an inspection of himself in the mirror. He hadn't spent much time looking at himself since he left the Games, and was surprised to find himself changed. Unlike their precious Victor, the Capitol had not bothered to clean him up nice.

Across his throat there was a jagged scar from the arrow, made worse by his ripping out the tube in the hospital. Smaller scars from his Tracker Jacker stings dotted his neck and shoulders. Thin lines from the other minor injuries he had sustained criss-crossed his skin here and there.

Though Cato knew this damage was extremely superficial compared to what the other Tributes' bodies looked like as they were lifted from the arena, he found himself shrinking away from the mirror. It wasn't just the scars; he'd lost weight as well. He could see it in his face, the way his cheekbones stood out, not just from his handsome bone structure, but from something else – from need.

His eyes had a slightly distant, wild quality to them, and seemed too far back in his head. Cato had always had good looks. They were bred into him, trained into him. He didn't like the way his face appeared almost- lost, like the children from the poorer Districts during the Reapings.

No, he corrected himself. Not lost. Afraid.

He ran his shaking fingers through his short cropped hair and winced at the sight of the ugly stitches that still bound the gashes on his arms. The stitches had begun to dissolve, leaving angry red trails in their wake. He quickly dropped his arms and pulled his sleeves over his hands.

_'Let it go,' _he told himself, turning away from the mirror. '_There is no one to look pretty for anymore.'_ He smirked to himself, at the realization. There were no sponsors to impress, no crowds to woo. _'There is only me, and Peeta Mellark.'_

He left the bathroom, and, upon seeing that he had been staring at himself in the mirror for nearly an hour, made a mental note to avoid reflective surfaces until he grew accustomed to his new image - damaged.

He knew he couldn't fix the scars, but he could do something about trying to put the weight back on. Hungry or not, he knew how to eat to put on muscle. He opened the fridge and found it sparsely stocked, but full enough. Out of curiosity, he had taken inventory of what had been there the day before, and sure enough, food was being delivered. He wasn't sure how often, whether it was daily, or weekly. A quick survey of the cabinets told him the same was true for non-perishable food, which was being restocked as needed.

So, the Capitol was really doing this. They were really going to waste the resources to keep Cato and Peeta alive. He wondered how much it was worth to punish him, to punish both of them?

Cato had always believed what he had been told growing up, that the Capitol was just, but this whole situation seemed a bit too malicious, too unnecessarily elaborate of a punishment to be just. After all, what was it that Cato and Peeta had actually done wrong? They were just two teenagers who just didn't want to kill each other.

A cold sweat broke out over his palms, stinging the still-raw cuts in his palms. If he and Peeta were old enough to kill, old enough to be killed, in the eyes of the Capitol, they were probably old enough to warrant all sorts of cruel and unusual punishments.

Cato winced at the memory of his discussion with Haymitch, remembering Haymitch likening him to an Avox. Hadn't he said that the Capitol may not let him keep his tongue? At the thought, he couldn't help but choke a bit.

The soft creak of the door opening almost escaped Cato in his distracted state, but not quite. In an instant reaction to the sound, he made his way around the corner of the kitchen in order to get a view of the apartment's entryway. He made no attempt to mask his speed as the door slammed shut behind Peeta.

Cato was breathless and still as he stared at Peeta, who appeared polished and perfect, as the Capitol would have him look on the television. Every scar had been scrubbed from his lightly bronzed skin. His hair looked like spun gold, shining and soft. His clothing was tailored and stylish. He even smelled of the Capitol, perfumed and so clean as to smell artificial.

Cato knew better.

Peeta stood before him, unassuming, emanating warmth so unlike everything this artificial little compartment had to offer. Cato knew without any fraction of a doubt that Peeta was real. He was not some figment of his madness, not some loneliness given shape, but real, and here, with him.

Cato fought the urge to run to Peeta, just from the relief of seeing him. Almost as strong was the desire to run away, reminded as he was of their last interaction. He stayed stone-still, barely breathing.

Peeta had a small bag slung over his shoulder, which he dropped to the ground limply. Cato could see that Peeta was feeling about as certain of what to do as he was. Peeta licked his lips and tried his voice, which came out in a lilting whisper as he said, "I'm home."

Cato noticed his word choice: home. So this was Peeta's home. Their home. This tiny, Capitol compartment deep underground barely fit for an Avox, nonetheless a Victor, and yet, as Peeta spoke the word, Cato felt it too. A sense of certainty which he hadn't had only minutes before, when he was here alone.

This was their home.

Cato opened his hands, palms out, towards Peeta. A peace offering. To his surprise, Peeta crossed the distance between them, and, for the first time, came willingly into his arms.

The words were not hard to find, only hard to speak, in a tone to match the one that Peeta had used.

"Welcome home."


	8. Landscapes

CHAPTER 8: Landscapes

Months had passed since the Games and the Interviews, and Cato found himself anticipating the Victory Tour, which would mark their departure from this tiny life. It was a month or so out, sure, but after that, they would be moving to their new living quarters.

Peeta had been told, and relayed to him, that they would get a small house on the outskirts of the Capitol. Nothing big, nothing fancy, but it would be above ground. They could see the sun and go outdoors. They would still be monitored, but, so what? It was hard to imagine they could do anything worse in the eyes of the Capitol to insight further punishment.

This compartmentalized life was starting to put both of them on edge.

They dealt with it in different ways, but Cato could feel it in the air between them, a sort of ever-present tension.

Cato worked out. Peeta baked. Cato meditated. Peeta read or watched TV. These all seemed like normal activities, except that occasionally, Cato would find himself in the middle of a push-up, with no recollection of when he started doing push-ups, or how many he'd done, only knowing that his muscles were burning and he was dizzy from holding his breath.

He would occasionally find Peeta in the same state, flipping the corner of a book page – not turning it, over and over and over for minutes at a time, or watching static on the television after the programming had ended.

It was suspiciously easy for both of them lose track of time, not just minutes, or even hours, but entire days. Peeta had drawn up a makeshift calendar on the back of a page from one of his books, after he and Cato had enough screaming matches over dates and times to last a lifetime. Each day Peeta would cross reference it with the news to make sure they hadn't missed a day. It was more common than it should have been.

Surprisingly, it was Peeta who felt the need to fight the state of things, whereas Cato has made his peace with it. He had been trained never to waste energy on something that he couldn't change.

On one occasion, Cato listened as Peeta had tried to get the two of them moved earlier. He argued through the night and into the morning with unknown voices on the phone that had been installed that each of them needed more than what was at hand to really recover from all that they had been through.

Cato felt he had recovered quite well – he had put weight back on, and his scars were beginning to fade, to subside, into the gradient of skin. He was back in shape, even if he would never quite be the Career specimen that he once was. Then again, Peeta probably wasn't talking about their bodies.

While it was true that Peeta could probably use some longer walks to get him fully accustomed to his artificial leg, Peeta meant they needed to escape this claustrophobic atmosphere of containment. It was too reminiscent of each any every room they had been in since being Reaped – the rooms in which they said goodbye to their families, their train compartments, their apartments in the training center, and worst of all, the tiny rooms they dressed and prepped in right before the Games.

It felt like they had never left, really.

There was this unspoken fear that at any minute, they would be asked to step into a tube and shot back up into the arena to finish the job. Cato, even as he played it tough, saw Clove lurking everywhere in the corners of his vision. He wondered if Peeta saw the Girl on Fire anywhere, besides his in his dreams, from which he woke screaming and disoriented each and every night. They didn't talk about it of course. Cato found it was just too painful to say Clove's name out loud, and he wasn't sure what he would do if Peeta ever mentioned 'Katniss.'

Cato accepted long before Peeta did that they would just have to wait to be moved. Perhaps it was the fact that Peeta had some measure of freedom compared to Cato that made him so stubborn about it.

As Haymitch had instructed, Cato tried to be a companion to Peeta. He did everything that families in District 2 did, which was essentially share a living space and eat meals together. He had a feeling the families in District 12 must be different, because it always felt like Peeta was waiting for something from him that he never gave. It made him feel constantly like a failure, which he hated, but he didn't take it out on Peeta.

Instead, he punched the walls in the shower until his knuckles bled, or worked out until he was sore to the point of immobility. He channeled his aggression towards himself. It wasn't Peeta's fault he was a broken incomplete person. It was just Peeta's fault that he was alive.

Cato, in fact, avoided Peeta as much as possible outside of their meals together. He wanted to avoid forcing anymore kisses or false promises from the boy. It would be too destructive to Cato's psyche to be rejected, and was just plain too embarrassing with the knowledge that they were being watched.

Cato wanted more from Peeta than he could ever give. It was more than he deserved anyway. If he had done as he was supposed to, neither of them would be in this situation. He deserved his punishment. As time went on, however, Cato did find himself glad not to be alone.

Dinners were usually quiet, so it surprised Cato when Peeta started that night's meal with a conversation, almost as soon as they sat down.

"They're advertising the Victory Tour on television."

Cato chewed the bite of salad he had just put in his mouth, using the pause to consider his answer. "Makes sense. It's only about a month out."

"I don't want to see it. They're using clips from the Games in their promos."

"Ah." Cato measured his words, trying to be noncommittal. He took another bite of the leafy greens on his plate, and chewed without looking up at Peeta.

"I saw… Kat- I saw her. Us, riding the chariot together. In the cave. They're telling a story of lost love. I don't wanna hear that story."

"Neither do I," Cato snapped bristling even at the first syllable of Katniss's name spoken aloud.

"Sorry, I know that it must be hard for you, since, this is what you wanted," Peeta paused. He hadn't taken a single bite of his meal. "But I don't want it. I don't want to go on this tour."

"Well, you have to." Cato continued his short, simple answers. He thought about what Peeta had said. "And, you know, it really doesn't matter what I wanted. I'm pretty sure I wanted whatever the Capitol taught me to want."

Peeta fell silent.

Cato raised his head, chancing a glance at Peeta, who was staring at his plate, not touching his meal. Cato sighed. Once again, he'd said the wrong thing. He set down his fork, and waited for Peeta to speak.

Eventually Peeta raised his head, a peculiar look in his eyes. Cato couldn't quite read it. In the months they'd spent staring at each other across this table, talking about this or that, Cato had learned a lot about Peeta's face, and his expressions. This one was something he usually only saw in a fleeting glance, so to see it so steady now was unsettling. It was a strange blend of sadness, which was always there, warmth, which came and went, and… need.

"Even me?"

Cato choked a bit, despite there being nothing in his throat to choke on.

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you want me? Or does it just not matter?" Peeta was dead serious.

Cato felt as if he'd shrunk to half his size in the matter of a second. He had no idea what to say. He felt blind-sided. They hadn't talked about what had transgressed between them in the early days of their cohabitation. Nothing like it had happened since. Why was he bringing this up now?

Cato opened his mouth to speak, but didn't find any words, so he closed it.

Peeta was watching him carefully, but it was as if his entire body had just shut down. He was numb, struck mute, and stupid.

"Forget it," Peeta muttered. "I just don't want to watch TV anymore. I don't think I ever really watched much of it anyway, if I'm being honest. It was just-…"

"Noise," Cato supplied.

"Yeah," Peeta replied a little too quickly.

Peeta gave a sigh. I'm supposed to pick my talent, you know, to share on the Tour. I was thinking I could train like you-"

"Physical prowess isn't a talent," Cato interrupted him.

"Right," Peeta faltered. "Well, what would have you done? For yours?"

Cato couldn't help but laugh, "You know, my mentor and I couldn't never quite figure that out. I was never really good at anything besides fighting. He always said that if I won we'd figure it out then."

Peeta looked bewildered. He didn't seem to find it as funny as Cato.

"Clove," Cato found her name catching in his throat, continued, "She was going to paint."

"Paint," Peeta repeated the word, and seemed to perk up a bit.

"Yeah," Cato nodded, and tried to turn his memories to the paintings, and not the artist of which he spoke. "In 2, lots of people try to figure out what their talents will be so they can stay ahead, you know… even after the Games are over."

"Career Tributes become Career Victors," Peeta mused, humorlessly. "And then become Career Mentors to make more Career Tributes to kill all the rest of us."

Cato frowned. He had never thought of the perpetual extent to which Career Tributes had advantage over the others.

"Well," Peeta smoothed over the gap in the conversation. "What did she paint?"

"Landscapes," Cato laughed. He had always made fun of her for painting something so boring, even though they were very good.

"Landscapes?" Peeta seemed to be looking for some explanation, and invitation to share on the joke, but Cato thought it best to keep the Clove talk to a minimum. The joke would have to stay private, because along with an explanation, he would have to supply that he would spend long hours in the hills with Clove, swinging a stick around like a child while her graceful hands rendered the mountains around them her unwitting subjects.

"Landscapes," Cato repeated, the smile fading from his face. "She said it was soothing."

This word too, Peeta seemed to like. He whispered it to himself, with a smile. "Soothing."

Cato found his smile again, his insides warming in a way they rarely did as he saw the peace in Peeta's face.

"Maybe you should tell your friends in the Capitol to send you some paints."

"Maybe I will."

Their conversation came to a comfortable close, and they began to eat their meal. There was something in the air though, a feeling which Cato had come to recognize. Something was going unsaid that Peeta wished he would say. Cato's mind raced. Hadn't he answered all of Peeta's questions?

No. He hadn't. Peeta had asked if Cato wanted him. Cato, now that the moment had passed, knew what his answer should have been. 'Yes. More than anything.' But of course Cato could never say that out loud. He could never bring himself to appear so weak. He swallowed the bite of bread he had in his mouth and found that he couldn't bring himself to take another.

He was shaken from his thoughts by Peeta's hand sliding slowly across the table towards his.

"Cato?"

Cato continued to watch his hand as he asked, in an even tone, "What?"

Peeta's hand stopped, retracted. "Did you ever try it?" From Peeta's tone it was clear that he was repeating himself.

"Try what?" Cato barked, gruffly.

Peeta was patient. "Painting?"

Cato shook his head no, looking from Peeta's face to the table. Probably he was handling this conversation all wrong, continuing to let Peeta down.

Peeta's hand moved again, surprisingly quickly across the table to touch Cato's wrist. He raised his head to meet Peeta's eyes. He knew he looked surprised, but just couldn't seem to keep a cool demeanor. The touch thrilled him.

"You should paint with me," Peeta insisted, eyes surprisingly intense.

"I won't be any good," Cato said in a small voice. What was wrong with him?

"It doesn't matter. Just-," It was Peeta's turn to drop his gaze. His voice managed to stay steady as he added, "I want to spend more time together."

"You do?" Cato sounded so stupid. Why couldn't he make this conversation work? Nothing he said seemed to be coming out right.

"Yeah."

Peeta was earnest. He meant it. Cato had no idea why, but he couldn't really complain now could he? Sure he could. It would make keeping the atmosphere between them calm a much harder job. It would make it much more painful to resist the urge to touch Peeta, to kiss him, to go to him when he has nightmares. 'No,' was what Cato wanted to say. 'I will destroy you. I will tear you apart.'

"Yes," is what Cato said.

Peeta stood, and took a step towards Cato. Cato watched him, frozen with fear and fascination.

'No,' Cato thought.

Peeta took another step, careful, staring into Cato's eyes. Cato studied Peeta's beautiful, sad, blue eyes. The moment was beginning to feel like-

'No,' Cato's mind was screaming, 'Don't you know that if I touch you…'

Peeta was inches from him now, frozen, staring. The apartment seemed to be shrinking. It felt like the first night between them in the apartment, when Cato first pressed his lips to Peeta's, but he couldn't now, otherwise-

'I will never be able to let you go.'

"You asked me once if I wanted you." Peeta whispered, his voice so fragile, Cato thought it might shatter.

Cato tried to shake his head no, to warn Peeta, even as he leaned into him, to get away.

"I- I'm confused," Peeta's voice faltered, but his eyes stayed steady. The room behind them blurred out of focus. The temperature suddenly seemed stifling. Cato thought he might faint as Peeta uttered, "But I do," before closing the space between their lips.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey everyone, I know you thought I was dead, or more likely, you didn't give a damn about me but were worried I had given up on old Cato and Peeta in their tiny underground apartment.

Sorry for the hiatus, I got obscenely busy. Things have calmed just a little bit and I have found more time to work on my fanfics, which I love.

Sorry about all the typos in the last chapter, I got so excited to just post it that I didn't proof it first. I might proof it and repost it, along with the other chapters at some point, but this one shouldn't have the same problems.

Anywho, please read and review! Your readership inspires me! That and how adorable Cato is. And Peeta. And the two of them as a pair!

Thanks!


	9. Release

**CHAPTER 9: Release**

If Cato had ever entertained the thought that he could refuse Peeta anything, that was over now.

After the kiss placed on his lips by the blonde boy, the kiss that promised that Peeta wanted him too, he was no longer himself: a person, an entity separate from Peeta. He was simply an extension of the boy's will. He had become a whim, a beckon, a curious thought to Peeta, and nothing more. If Peeta had asked Cato to chew glass or drink boiling hot water, he would do it without so much as an utter of protest, or an inquiry of 'why?'

He was, as they say, 'a goner,' which is why he now lay stone still, frozen, not daring to move, even to breath, with Peeta's head resting on his shoulder; simply because Peeta wanted it. Peeta had this idea that his nightmares might be less terrifying if he had a point of reference – that was, Cato – when he awoke, screaming, convinced he was still in the Arena.

After the kiss that sealed Cato's fate, more than any deed on his life ever could have, Peeta had asked that they share a bed that night. Cato had smiled, to mask his inner panic. "I guess you want this whole, 'more time together' thing to start right now, huh?"

"I've wanted it for while," Peeta had admitted.

That was as far as the discussion went. They washed the dishes, and underwent their normal evening routine, with Cato meditating and Peeta reading. The only difference was the call Peeta put in for paints. Whoever he was always talking with on the other end of the phone, which Cato was not allowed to even think about touching, was pleased that he was taking an interested in 'post-Games' life. Like Peeta had put the whole thing behind him – right. Like anyone could.

Even Cato couldn't, and he was born, raised, and trained for it.

Now, Cato couldn't turn to face the clock, too afraid that he would wake Peeta, but guessed at least 2 hours had passed since the boy had fallen asleep. Cato was also afraid that he would look over and the clock would tell him that mere minutes had passed, and that the rest of this night would be endless.

So far, Peeta seemed to be sleeping restfully. Cato, of course, had resigned himself to not sleeping even a wink that night, too afraid of – what? He wasn't sure. There were mornings when he woke up violently, as if from a nightmare, but he couldn't remember any of his dreams. On those mornings, he attacked the air until he came to his senses. Since Peeta was here, the air might not be the only that received Cato's thrashing if he dreamed.

Was that really what he was afraid of? He trusted his self-restraint in most cases. Clove had dealt with similar when she woke him in the Arena, and he had never hurt her. That, he supposed, could have been more to her credit than his own. He took a deep breath as the thought of Clove brought fresh agony to his misery.

The grey ceiling seemed to stretch and warp, vast and finite all at once. It was a bad idea to stare at a flat, unmoving surface. Your eyes could play tricks. He had learned this as a child when learning how to deal with long periods of waiting. Don't watch water boil or grass grow or paint dry or blank surfaces. All would simply drive you to madness. Blackness was better than blankness.

Cato shut his eyes, trying to force himself to grow tired, but instead, images flashed in the darkness behind his eyelids. First, violent things, like the Mutts in the arena, Clove's death, and even the kills he had been so proud of in the Arena. He kept his eyes closed. This wasn't blackness, but it was better than the nothingness of the ceiling.

Then, new images. Glimpses he'd caught of Peeta's near naked body getting out of the shower; Peeta's hands kneading bread dough, over and over again, firmly but carefully; Peeta's face, filled with need when he'd said he wanted him. Fucking Clove before the Games. Not Clove herself, or her body. Just the adrenaline rush brought on by such intense pleasure, the immediate feeling of such closeness with another person, his blood roaring in his ears, almost like a fight, like a good long sparring match; the memory brought him excitement.

His blood began to pump, to surge through his veins, lighting his body afire with that familiar feeling of need. Of hunger. Of wanting something that was normally so out of his grasp when these feelings came, but not tonight. Tonight, what he wanted was right at the tips of his fingers. He simply had to reach over… and take it.

_No._

His eyes snapped open, erasing the images that sparked his temptation, but it was too late. The damage had been done. He had grown hard. He was erect, like a sword, trembling from a recent battle, needing a sheath. Peeta could be…

_No._

Cato gritted his teeth and let out his breath in a thin hiss. With his hands, he gripped the sheets so hard that his hands throbbed, but still he clenched his fists tighter. He tried to hold his breath. Maybe he could make himself pass out.

He ached. His entire body, needed. Needed Peeta. Needed to touch him, to be touched by him.

The feeling had never been so intense, but then again, he and Peeta had never been so close for so long. Peeta was right there next to him. He just had to turn over, and then their bodies would be pressed against one another-

A spasm of the ache that seemed to emanate from the center of Cato's being caused him to let out the breath he had been holding in sharp, rasping, gasps.

Peeta awoke immediately, sitting up from where he had been resting on Cato's shoulder.

"What's wrong?" He asked the dimness. "What's happening?"

"It's nothing," Cato choked out through his gritted teeth.

Peeta turned to him, "Are you alright?" His hand was travelling towards Cato's shoulder.

Cato recoiled, turning away from Peeta's touch, "Don't."

Peeta grew silent. Cato could hear his breathing, but didn't want to look at him. He was, perhaps, steadying himself, taking stock of the sensations penetrating his consciousness in the darkness. _Or maybe he knows what's going on. _The thought embarrassed Cato, made him feel pathetic. He had mastered almost complete control of his body, except, it seemed, in the case of wanting nothing more that to sheath himself in Peeta over and over again until the boy writhed with pleasure underneath him.

The thought brought Cato a fresh pang of longing.

He managed a quick, "I'm fine." Before another round of pained gasps escaped his lips involuntarily.

"You don't sound fine." Peeta's voice was firm.

"I am. I'm fine, okay, just-," tears threatened the corners of Cato's eyes and he bit his cheek hard to try to force them back, but as his ragged breathing resumed, he could hear the traces of panic and sorrow in it – the sounds of sobs he couldn't quite choke back.

"Cato," Peeta's voice flooded with concern and his hands were on Cato's shoulder.

It was like lighting had struck Cato's brain. He might have blacked out for a second, or, more accurately, whited out. His vision seemed to change brilliant colors in an instant before glowing hot white, like the center of a firework exploding in midair.

When he came to, he was breathing Peeta's breath, kissing him with such desperation that it seemed he was the only air Cato's lungs could breathe. He had been suffocated for the entirety of his life, until this very moment, when he could finally take his first inhale of life sustaining oxygen. Tears were streaming down his face, but still he held Peeta's face to his, kissing him on his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his neck, breathing him in.

Peeta began to kiss him back, which, rather than quelling his need for the boy, seemed to escalate the situation to a type of feverish hysteria. Both boys were clawing at each other, holding each other down, then releasing, only to hold the other down again moments later. Neither seemed to know what to do, how to get close enough to quell the fire burning between them.

Cato could hear himself growling, husky, into Peeta's ear, "Take your clothes off."

To his surprise, Peeta responded, without breaking the racing fever between them, tearing off his shirt, and to Cato's surprise, his own shirt as well.

As the skin on their chests made contact, Cato's arms seemed to move of their own accord, encircling Peeta's body and pressing it to his own until it was almost painful. Almost. He forced the boy back onto the bed, pressing into him more and more, grinding himself against Peeta's hips, holding him still tighter and all the while growling and kissing and licking and biting any part of Peeta he could reach with his mouth.

"Cato," Peeta moaned his name and Cato shuddered with pleasure.

Cato's muscles began to strain, to grow tight. A sweat broke out over his body, intermingling with the beads of sweat glistening on the surface of Peeta's smooth skin. Cato was losing control. It was too much. He wanted it too badly.

It would be so easy. Peeta wanted it didn't he? Didn't he say as much? He said he wanted Cato, but did he want this? He was kissing him back. Didn't that mean that he wanted this?

_No. It doesn't._

Cato threw every bit of force he could into pushing himself off Peeta, flipping around so that his back was against the headboard and pushing Peeta in the opposite direction so that he wound up at the foot of the bed, looking bewildered.

Cato reached out, grabbing the bed knob on either side of the headboard with his hands, digging in so he could hold himself back if necessary.

"What's wrong?" Peeta still looked clueless, mouth slightly agape, hair mussed, but happy, somehow.

Cato closed his eyes. He would never be able to say what he needed if he had to look at Peeta while he did it. "I want you Peeta."

"I want you too, I told you that," Peeta's voice was soft, and accompanied by a hand on Cato's leg.

"You don't understand." Cato bit his lips, and held, white knuckled to the bed posts, even as he felt Peeta moving closer to him. "I- I want to fuck you."

Peeta froze. Cato kept his eyes shut. The moment seemed to stop, then; freeze. Things were so still, Cato wondered if any time at all actually passed before Peeta answered. "I'm not ready for that."

"I know you're not," Cato growled. He wasn't angry at Peeta, but rather, at himself for losing control like he did.

"But I think-," Peeta began to move forward again, "I think I could someday." He brushed his lips against Cato's so softly, for some reason, Cato felt like crying. He opened his eyes, and found Peeta's, blue eyes staring back. He didn't look angry, or scared. He still looked strangely happy. Peeta licked his lips, which betrayed a smile as he continued. "So this will have to do for now."

He reached his hand down Cato's sleep pants and wrapped his fingers around Cato. Cato let out a cry, which Peeta stifled with a kiss as he began to move his hand, firmly but carefully, up and down, over and over again.

Cato kept his grip on reality by clutching the bed posts as Peeta coaxed from his mouth all sorts of sounds, moans, growls, and even whimpers. Peeta spoke in a benevolent tone, "I want you Cato, I want you," all the while, stealing kisses from his quivering lips.

Finally, in a crescendo of sounds, sensations, and the same white hot flashes behind his eyes Cato released – everything. The tension in his muscles, the ache, the breath he was holding, his grip on the bed posts – everything, and then he was taking gasps again, from the air, from Peeta's lips. He wrapped his arms around the boy, keeping his eyes closed tight, too afraid and ashamed to look at him as he whispered in the boy's ear, "You're terrifying."

"Why?" Peeta's voice came out soft and lilting, and Cato could bet that his eyes had assumed their constant look of sadness.

"Because I need you so damn much."

In return, Peeta only kissed him, that same soft way that brought tears to Cato's eyes. Whether or not he cried, he couldn't tell, because he fell into a dreamless sleep tangled in Peeta's arms.


	10. I'm With You

**CHAPTER 10: I'm With You**

Cato awoke, disoriented; not startling into consciousness the way he usually did, but rather, he drifted awake, feeling slow, and… warm. Content. There was no immediate need to spring awake, no imminent danger; there was no fear.

The first thing he was aware of was the scent of Peeta – smelling like skin, and hair, and a little of baking bread – a lingering aroma the boy always seemed to carry with him always. For a time, there was nothing but that, and Cato breathed Peeta, deeply, in and out.

As his other senses began to catch up, Cato became aware of the weight of Peeta in his arms, then the specific, textural sensation of the boy's skin against his own. Cato moved his fingers, ever so lightly in a trail up and down Peeta's arm. The sensation brought him a sense of peace.

He could feel Peeta's chest rising and falling, and became aware of the sound of the boy's breathing, soft and steady. Cato matched his own breath to Peeta's, their chests rising and falling as one. There were no other sounds in their prison – just Cato and Peeta, breathing, living; together.

On Cato's lips, he could still taste the kisses left behind from the night before. He dared not open his eyes, for fear that when he opened them, this moment would end. He wanted to stay – just like this. There was no need for anything else. They could just both stay sleeping like this, forever.

Death.

They could die, and wouldn't it be better than whatever future the Capitol had in store for them? They had been Tributes in the Hunger Games. By that logic, they had already outlived whatever life expectancy anyone could have projected for them. This could be it. They could just stay here, rot here, and wouldn't that be perfect?

_I love you._

He knew the moment the words crossed his mind that they would never cross his lips.

_I love you, do you know that?_

He finally allowed his eyelids to flutter open, ending the feeling that he and Peeta were completely alone; the only two hearts beating in the entire world. They were in the same mustard-colored room in which he had first awoken in this place he'd thought was his prison. Now he realized that it was… his salvation.

Not the place, but Peeta. Peeta had saved him from… being himself; being the cold, unfeeling Career tribute who'd killed, who'd murdered without so much as a second thought. Being with Peeta these past months had taught him something he'd never imagined possible – that that wasn't the person he wanted to be.

He didn't want to be a killer.

Probably it would take more than a passing thought to truly transform him into something else, but, it was a start. Cato smiled, if only to lessen the ache in his chest. He couldn't quite identify the pain. It felt like sadness, but deeper; like misery. Misery that would never quite leave him.

"Regret."

The word came to him from somewhere in his memories, drifting from some long forgotten crevice of his mind to his lips. He felt regret. Maybe it was easier to be an unfeeling Career than to feel like this. He puzzled for a moment about where this word came from. Not from Clove certainly, or his mentor, or his worthless family.

No. This was a word he had only learned recently. It was the one that Peeta used when he talked about the Arena. Words like 'regret,' and 'guilt' seemed to be Peeta's only feelings about what happened in the 74th Hunger Games.

Recently, they seemed to be the only feelings Cato could dredge up about the whole thing too. In this way, Peeta was certainly rubbing off on him. Cato wondered for just a moment, if he would have felt the same way if he had never really met Peeta, encountered him as an ally the way he had in the Games? If Peeta had died at the Cornucopia, and Cato had won, would he even have cared about any of this?

The thought of Peeta dying, however, choked Cato, and he decided – simpler or not – he didn't want to consider that alternative. He knew without a shred of doubt that he would rather it be this way, complicated and painful. If he had never met Peeta, never loved him, then-

The thought brought him a shiver.

"Are you alright?" Peeta whispered in response, bringing Cato from his thoughts.

Cato shifted a bit to glance at Peeta out of the corner of his eye. The boy was still wrapped in his arms, head on his chest, sad blue eyes peeking up at him. Cato shifted his chin back to rest on Peeta's head and wondered into the boy's hair, "How long have you been awake?"

"A little while. I just- wanted to stay like this a little longer," Peeta admitted, sheepishly.

Cato clenched his jaw. To hear Peeta utter those words in such a soft, fragile voice made Cato want to protect the boy from… what? From him; From Cato.

"I can't-," Cato began to speak, before he even knew what he was trying to say. "I can't promise to never hurt you. I wish I could, but I can't."

"I'm not asking you to," Peeta's response was familiar, sad.

"What are you asking for, then?" Cato was getting that feeling that there was something Peeta wanted him to say, but as usual, he had no idea what.

"Just… I want you to be with me."

"I am with you," Cato's voice was hard, and it made him cringe. He tried to soften it as he added, "I don't really have a choice."

Peeta grew silent. Clearly, Cato had given him to wrong answer, had let him down. He tried again, "I mean… You're the one who has some place to go."

"I don't mean in the same place." Peeta snapped. His tone surprised Cato.

"What do you mean then?" Cato tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. He felt helpless. He knew his tone reflected it, but he was beyond feeling embarrassed by his vulnerability around Peeta – it was far too late to pretend that Cato had any sort of emotional resistance around him.

This time, when Peeta spoke, his voice was broken, "I want you _with _me."

Cato's tone reflected Peeta's as he admitted, so quiet he was unsure if he said it aloud, "I'm _with_ you."

The morning was quiet, somber.

They ate together, a meal of eggs and toast which they prepared together. Peeta made hot chocolate for them, another of the recent culinary discoveries made by Cato. He never realized how many wonderful foods there were in the world – having eaten for maximum efficiency, rather than taste, his whole life.

The many breads and biscuits that Peeta liked to bake, along with things like sugar. Cato never knew how much he enjoyed eating. Certainly he'd enjoyed certain foods growing up, fruits, nuts, but things like hot chocolate – he'd never even known that it existed.

As they sat at the table, sipping the warm, sweet drink and finishing their last few bites, Cato chanced an attempt at conversation. Things between them had been so amazing the night before, and now seemed so… awkward.

"Uh, you know, I never had this growing up."

"Breakfast?" Peeta seemed genuinely confused, though he might just be teasing.

"This," Cato gestured with his mug, "Hot chocolate."

"Really?" Peeta perked up, sitting forward as he added, "I would have thought that you had luxuries like that in 2. Even the merchants in 12 had Hot Chocolate."

"Mm… well," Cato swallowed his mouthful before continuing. "When you're a Career in training, you don't really get to have 'empty calories.'"

"No, I suppose not," Peeta kept his voice even, but Cato remembered that Peeta had strong feelings regarding the unfairness of having Career Tributes at all. He decided to keep that conversation from starting again – it was an argument they'd had more than a few times.

"Uhm, did you say merchants?"

"Yeah," Peeta nodded, "In District 12, we have two different types of people, we have the merchants, like my family. They run the shops, the bakery, that type of thing. Then there are Seam folk – they're the miners. Katniss's family was from the Seam."

Cato was surprised when Peeta didn't falter on Katniss's name the way he usually did.

"Katniss- she- most Seam families are poor, you see." He shook his head, as if trying to release himself from the grip of some memory, "She had never had Hot Chocolate before the train ride to the Capitol. I'd only had it myself on a handful of special occasions."

"Clove's mother gave us each a square of baker's chocolate, when we were chosen for the Games." Cato found he could hold Peeta's gaze as they talked, even though it was difficult. In turn, Peeta held his.

"Baker's chocolate?" Peeta actually laughed. Cato smiled. He loved the sound of Peeta's laughter – rare though it was. "That stuff is awful!"

Cato flushed a bit as he admitted, "Well, I can see that now but," he found himself stifling a laugh at the memory of he and Clove choking down the stuff like it was, well, a delicacy. "At the time… well, it was the first time we ever tasted chocolate."

"Yeah," Peeta's eyes grew distant, and Cato assumed that the next words out of his mouth would be about the Girl on Fire, but instead, he said, "Every year, on my birthday, I got to eat fresh bread. Every other day of the year, we only got the leftovers – little bits and stale rolls that didn't get bought up the day before, but on my birthday I got fresh bread, one loaf for me, and one loaf to trade for jam in the market."

The way Peeta looked, so innocent, so filled with longing, made Cato want to lean across the table and kiss him – so he did. He tried to do it softly, the way that seemed to be so easy for Peeta to do. Cato always felt like he kissed too hard, too desperate. This time though, he seemed to do it right, because Peeta swelled underneath his lips like the tide.

Cato drew away, but Peeta caught his face in his hands. Cato pressed his face into the boy's fingers.

Inches from each other, their noses so close that Cato had to shift his gaze back and forth between Peeta's eyes, they waited, studying one another.

"I like hearing about you." Peeta admitted with a smile.

"Me too," Cato whispered back and turned his head to plant a quick kiss on Peeta's palm. In his peripheral, he noticed something – a small stack of boxes by the front door.

He turned his face away from Peeta's and nodded towards the boxes. "Looks like your painting supplies are here."

Peeta's gaze followed Cato's. "Guess so."

"Well then, let's see what you can do with a paintbrush."


	11. 6:00

CHAPTER 11: 6:00

As could be expected, Peeta was brilliant with a paint brush. Frighteningly so, since, unlike Clove and her peaceful landscapes, he painted the violence of the arena, and nothing else.

He rendered, in painstaking detail, his dramatic rescue from the riverbank by Katniss, the blood covered field that surrounded the Cornucopia following the bloodbath, and even his time with the Careers. Cato's breath was taken away over and over by the immediacy of the paintings – as if each subject was trapped in a moment in time, and might come to life and leap from their canvas as if no time had passed since their capture.

There was a particular portrait of Clove with her coat open, lips pursed in concentration, sorting through her knives that brought Cato a distinct chill down his spine. The way the sun caught in her hair, betraying the streaks of brown that were nearly invisible in all but direct sunlight; The look in her intelligent eyes was so real it made Cato give the painting a wide breadth. He didn't want to see Clove, didn't want to see the sprinkling of freckles on her nose, the way her ears stuck out a little too far from her head; He didn't want to remember, in all her complex and vivid detail, his best friend. It made him miss her too much.

Just as painful as Clove's presence in the apartment, but for a much different reason, was the sheer multitude of portraits of the Girl on Fire, looking strong, beautiful, and benevolent, as Cato knew Peeta must see her - as he knew Peeta loved her.

Peeta missed her, as Cato himself missed Clove, but more, he imagined. The thought made him too angry to consider as more than a fleeting curiosity.

Cato was awful at painting, as he knew he would be. He covered entire canvases in swirling vibrant colors, rendering no subject at all. Peeta liked them, but Cato gave up after about a week. Painting was like meditating on canvas, but Cato didn't like sharing the contents of his heart and his mind, so he opted to lay his paintbrush down. More canvases for Peeta's work, he figured. That's what the Capitol had given them the art supplies for anyway.

It seemed the more paintings there were, the less there was to say between Cato and Peeta. How could they speak with so many ghosts listening? The presence of the portraits was just a reminder of lucky they were to have made it through. Or perhaps how unlucky. The painting reminded them of how they'd been at odds in the arena, how, perhaps, if the other had not survived so long, they wouldn't have to miss their District Partners at all. Only each other.

This thought brought little comfort, of course. Nothing brought them much comfort, not with the Victory Tour so close now. Just another day, and Peeta would be on a train touring the Districts, and Cato would be… where? Moving to their new living arrangements? Stuck in the apartment alone for the 3 weeks spanned by the tour? Dead?

This last option Cato had not discussed with Peeta. He didn't want to upset the boy, but he thought it was at least a possibility. There was no point in telling Peeta, it's not as if either of them could stop it if the Capitol decided they wanted Cato dead. He would be dead. No point in worrying Peeta, especially since there was no way to know if that was even a possibility.

Neither knew what was to happen on the tour, or after, and both were far beyond speculating, at least out loud. There was only each day, and each other, and the paintings - the ghosts.

Cato couldn't help but study each face, each drop of blood, each raw brush stroke, as he helped Peeta pack up the paintings for the tour. Since the paintings were Peeta's talent, they would be shown on the tour. Cato wondered if the Capitol would find these appropriate. They usually liked the Victor's talent to seem as if their life had moved beyond the Games, onto bigger and better things. Peeta's talent, while incredible, made it clear that he had not done so.

Painting seemed to really help Peeta deal with his feelings about the things that happened in the Arena. He was having fewer nightmares, and painted the Arena from his perspective, not the Capitol's glorified, processed vision. It was gritty, and desperate, and sad. No, Cato got the feeling that the Capitol wouldn't be too pleased with Peeta's talent.

Cato had noticed a suspicious lack of renderings of himself in Peeta's work – he could be seen in the background of a few paintings of the Career Pack, facing away, fading, a ghost himself. He hadn't asked Peeta about it yet.

"Why-," Cato's voice faltered, as he ran his fingers over one of the few images of himself, "Didn't you paint me more?"

Peeta's patient sigh gave Cato the impression that he may have been expecting this question.

"I'm surprised it took you so long to ask." Peeta tenderly set the painting he was packing down and turned to Cato. He was cross-legged, hair messy, and looking sad, as always.

Cato was crouched, and settled back down onto the floor to assume a more comfortable position. "I didn't want to impose."

"Impose?" Peeta gave his hair a toss, and laughed. "On what, exactly?"

"Your…," Cato coughed, awkwardly, "Feelings… your privacy; I don't know. Your right to paint whatever you want."

"My privacy?" Peeta laughed even harder. Cato looked at his feet. He was bad at talking about his feelings, Peeta knew that. He couldn't just say that it made him jealous, all the paintings of Katniss Everdeen. He couldn't admit that his feelings were hurt. What did Peeta expect him to say?

Peeta scooted into his line of sight, downwardly directed as it was. Peeta's face ducked into his view, an odd sort of smirk on his face. Cato followed Peeta's head back up with his eyes. Peeta reached out for Cato's wrist, and set his hand on it, gently. "I don't have any secrets from you. You can ask me anything."

Cato studied his face, his blonde swoop of hair, and downwards, to his lean arms, his broad shoulders, and finally back up to his warm, open smile. Peeta's voice, smooth as honey, urged him, "So ask me."

Cato shook his head, as if trying to clear the rush of blood to his cheeks. "I just- You painted the Girl on Fire and- everyone else… but not me. Not really. Why not?"

Peeta grew silent, and assumed the slightly furrowed brow Cato had come to recognize as him collecting his thoughts.

Cato waited. He had been taught patience at a very young age. It was lucky he had mastered it so completely, or the past few months might have actually killed him. Peeta always thought things through completely before he spoke. Sometimes it took days.

Luckily, now was not one of those times. Peeta found his words, and spoke them, plainly, "Is this about me and you, or is it about me and Katniss?"

Peeta's answer brought Cato up short. He hadn't thought of these things as separate before. "Can't it be about both?"

Peeta gave another sigh, this time, less patient, "I've decided that it's better if they're different."

Cato's face flushed again, this time from anger, "How so?!" He cringed at his own demanding tone.

"How I feel about you… it's different from the way I loved Katniss."

"Right, because you don't love me at all," Cato snapped. As usual, Peeta managed to push him into sounding like a complete idiot - a vulnerable, worthless idiot.

Peeta's face was unreadable. He looked a little shocked, his mouth hanging slightly open, as if he wanted to say something, his eyes wide, and his brows furrowed. Cato couldn't really think of a recovery statement, or a retreat strategy, and so he sat, and tried to be patient.

Peeta closed his mouth, and furrowed his brow, and for good measure went about chewing his lip – collecting his thoughts.

To quell his restlessness, Cato stood, and continued wrapping the paintings and packing them in the crates in which they would be loaded onto the train. Peeta stayed still as a statue in the middle of the room, crossed legged, hair messy, slightly sad, like always.

Cato put away the ghosts, which had made their little life feel claustrophobic. Once they were packed, their faces once again lingering memories, their absence made things feel empty instead. Cato looked around Peeta's bedroom, in which he had painted his masterpieces, now bare, desolate.

With nothing left to do but wait, Cato moved opposite Peeta, crouched, and watched him collect his thoughts.

Hours passed, the lights dimmed, and still they sat.

At some point around about 4 in the morning, Peeta gave a heartbreaking laugh, helpless, as he asked Cato, "How long are you going to wait for me?"

"As long as it takes." Cato stared into his eyes, blue, and beautiful. He hoped that Peeta could see that behind his eyes, there was a real person, with thoughts and feelings that his clumsy words simply weren't capable of expressing. Cato meant this statement on a broader scale than just tonight. He meant it in regards to the tour, in regards to sex, in regards to forever. All this he tried to say with his eyes, as his lips were mute to say how much he cared about Peeta Mellark. Cato held Peeta's gaze until it turned back inwards, and the boy continued sorting his thoughts.

It was still early morning, just before the lights would come back to full power, when Peeta finally said, "Yes I do."

"What?" Cato hadn't expected anything so vague. Usually Peeta was so eloquent. Clearly, his words were meant to be a rebuttal to what Cato had said, but it had been so long since he'd said it, and his thoughts were hazy. He couldn't remember what his exact wording had been. Peeta did… what?

"I do love you." Peeta's face was serious. "Yes, it's different from the way I loved Katniss, but you can't fault me for that. I'm sure the way you feel for me is different from the way you felt for Clove, too. Love isn't finite."

"I didn't love Clove." Cato's voice betrayed his exhaustion.

"Not the way you love me, but you did love her. You told me she was your best friend."

"I don't- I never said that I… about you, I mean-," Cato was panicking. He didn't like talking about this right before Peeta left. It seemed like no good could come of this conversation. All they were doing was giving the Capitol something to use against them. Saying how they felt about each other would only invite further punishment.

"You don't have to say it." Peeta's voice was gentle, but he sounded disappointed.

"I- I can't-," Cato wasn't even sure what he was trying to say.

"You don't have to say it." Peeta's voice was firmer.

"I'm sorry," was all Cato could choke out. His head fell to rest against his chest. He couldn't look at Peeta; this was all just too much.

He thought they were doomed to silence again until Peeta's voice reached him, lilting seductively, "You don't have to say it… if you show me."

Cato looked up at Peeta, confused. Peeta had stood up and was walking towards his bed.

"What are you-?" Cato stopped wondering what Peeta meant mid-sentence, when the boy removed his shirt.

"I know you don't have to words to tell me how you feel," Peeta turned, the dim light casting soft shadows on his naked chest. "I believe that someday, you'll find them. Until then, I want you to show me. Give me a piece of you to take on this tour with me, so I don't have to feel alone."

Cato rose to his feet and moved to Peeta. As he did, he dropped his pants and removed his shirt. He reached out, taking Peeta's face in both his hands and kissing him deeply. Peeta was right; Cato's actions had always spoken louder than his words. As Peeta's arms wrapped around the small of Cato's back, and their bare chests made contact. Cato's body was ablaze, encompassed by the familiar flames which could only be quelled by Peeta – his skin, his breath, his beating heart. Cato wanted them all, and so he took them.

It was difficult for him to stay in control, to be gentle enough with Peeta. With each moan, and each sigh, and each ragged whisper of his name, Cato could feel the rush of his blood underneath his skin, burning for Peeta. He took care to go slowly, and to listen when Peeta said, "Wait."

They were a tangle of limbs, united in their breath, their heartbeats. They explored each other, memorizing each and every inch of the other's body, learning to make each other tick, and hiss, and cry out. It was like nothing Cato had ever experienced – bliss, wholeness, wanting so badly to progress, but also, needing to stay, to savor each moment.

When it came time for Cato to thrust into Peeta, both boys were almost giddy in their euphoria, quivering with the anticipation of what was to come. Cato's arm wrapped tightly around Peeta's chest, and his other around the boys hips. He buried his lips in Peeta's hair, jaw quivering as he whispered, hoarsely, "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Peeta's reply had barely passed his lips before Cato buried himself inside Peeta, who cried out in pleasure, and a bit of pain. His body tensed, and he gripped the sheets with his hands. Cato held him as he writhed, letting out his breath in a sort of hiss between his clenched teeth.

It was a raw, animal sort of feeling, being this close to someone. When Peeta's tense muscles relaxed, Cato began to move inside him. Slowly, and carefully at first, but gaining momentum as the pressure that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time began to build, to urge him, faster, deeper.

Peeta cried Cato's name, and grabbed his hand. Peeta held on so tightly that Cato knew he must be feeling the same pressure – the same need for release. When finally they climaxed, fireworks seemed to explode behind his eyelids, and Cato was convinced for just a moment that maybe he had died. Just between the apex of the pressure and the waves of pleasure there was an instant of nothing; of absolutely nothing.

He heard himself choking on his own breath as the world began to swim back into focus. Peeta, too, was gasping for air. Once the aftershocks had ended, and both boys were finally still and had caught their breaths, Cato pulled Peeta to him and kissed his forehead, gently.

There were no words. There were only the ghosts, and impending day that would bring Peeta's departure and Cato's uncertain future.

The lights came up.

6:00.


	12. Escape

**Chapter 12: Escape**

They came for Cato just a few hours after Peeta left for the Victory Tour.

Haymitch had come to collect Peeta at 10:00 that morning. The boys said an awkward goodbye, something neither of them was great at, and then Peeta stepped outside the door – gone.

Haymitch, though, had lingered. He looked as if he might have something to say, but remained silent. Before he'd followed Peeta out the door, Haymitch had given Cato this sort of sad, knowing look. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was something like it; resignation, perhaps.

Then he too, had left.

From that moment, Cato knew that something was wrong. He'd paced the apartment, feeling, more than ever like a caged beast. He knew someone was coming for him. He didn't know who, or when, or what they planned to do with him, but he knew Haymitch's look had been a warning.

He had, at first thought that Haymitch was going to lecture him, or maybe even give him advice, but his silence meant that he had something to say that couldn't be said in front of the monitoring devices installed in the apartment.

Cato was in a panic. Was he going to die? He'd almost written that off as an option – but was it a possibility? Before he'd left for the Games, he was prepared to die, but now, he had someone who needed him, someone whom he needed. If he died, he would leave Peeta completely alone, and hadn't Haymitch said he'd be another Annie Cresta if that happened?

The thought of Peeta rotting away in his own mind like that ragdoll of a girl made Cato sweat. He had to try to survive, no matter what the Capitol did to him. They might torture him, he'd heard of the Capitol torturing traitors and terrorists and the like, and he supposed that by surviving the Hunger Games when he wasn't supposed to, he probably fell into that category.

He'd learned to handle a great deal of pain in his Career training. He would have to be strong enough; he simply wouldn't leave himself another option. He would not die.

He paced the apartment, reverting back to his old ways – punching the walls, tearing open the cushions on the couch, anything to feel pain – pain meant present, pain meant alive, pain meant in control.

His hands were a bleeding mess when the Peacekeepers arrived. They made spattering red marks on the white uniforms as he punched and kicked and clawed his way through them. They had only sent six – not nearly enough.

Within about 15 minutes, every one of them was either dead or dying on the apartment floor.

Cato moved to the door, which the Peacekeepers had been smart enough to shut behind them, and tried the handle. Locked.

Cato would have to wait by the door for when they sent more – and they would send more. Maybe he could dive past them when they tried to come in. His hands twitched; he longed for a weapon, for the glorious sword he'd wielded in the Arena.

He ran to the bodies of the Peacekeepers and searched them for weapons – guns, clubs, even mace – they had nothing. How foolish of the Capitol – except that they had probably anticipated his will to fight back. They were planning on overwhelming him with sheer numbers. They knew sending a Peacekeeper with a weapon meant the weapon may end up in Cato's capable hands.

No matter. Armed or unarmed, he would make this hard for them.

_You want to torture me? You want to kill me? You'll have to do better than that._

Cato was struck by one more thought; he ran to the kitchen and tried the drawer that had contained their cooking knives. It was stuck shut. He looked up towards the ceiling, hoping he was making eye contact with one of their cameras as he spoke, "You're pretty good, but, I'm a lot better."

He reached into the sink and pulled out two wicked-looking kitchen knives. They had used them the day previous and had not yet washed them and returned them to their drawer. Too late, a metal slide covered the sink. The knives were already flicking and twirling back and forth in Cato's hands.

He gave another glance in the ceiling's direction as he moved back towards the entryway. For good measure, he placed his ear against the door, hoping that perhaps he could hear the new group's arrival. He was uncertain of the terrain outside, but since they were underground, it was probably concrete. The sound of scuffling boots would not go unnoticed.

Cato slowed his breath, closed his eyes, and waited.

Either they had greatly underestimated him, or were hoping to catch him by surprise, as it took the next group of Peacekeepers almost 1 ½ hours to arrive. Cato was alerted, as he had hoped, by the sound of their boots. He estimated somewhere between 8 and a dozen. He stepped back from the door and crouched low – very low, muscles tensed, ready to pounce.

As soon as the door had creaked open, Cato leapt forward into the legs of the unsuspecting Peacekeepers. With his knives, he cut and slashed, aiming for the Achilles tendon, the knee-cap, and the hamstring. With this group it was less important to finish them off, since he just wanted to move through them. Disabling them from following him was most important.

They cried out and panicked and fell to the floor, clutching at their legs. Cato had reached the end of the group before they had even made it all the way into the apartment. This group had been given weapons, Cato noted, clubs of some kind, as a few blows had been landed on his back and shoulders in the confusion.

No matter. As he broke through the last set of Peacekeepers, he took in his surroundings. He was in a long, narrow, concrete hallway. There were no doors except the one right at the end, a good ¼ mile away. He broke into a full sprint with not even so much as a stutter step of hesitation. From behind him, he could hear the injured Peacekeepers shouting at each other, at him, and into the apartment, trying to get the word out that he was escaping.

He was escaping.

His adrenaline was pumping, his blood roaring in his ears, as he reached the door at the end of the hallway. It had no handle or lock, but instead, a keypad on the wall in which a code needed to be typed. Cato knew that punching codes at random would get him nowhere, and breaking it might only activate further locking mechanisms.

Cato turned back towards the red and white tangle of bodies. He tried to make out if any of them could stand – if he had missed any of his targets. Not a one was standing now, and as he slowly made his way back towards them, shouts of alarm began to sound out from the mass.

He grabbed the first Peacekeeper he came to by the scruff of his uniform, and tore off his helmet. He was a stern-faced, salt-and-pepper haired man with a sort of sneer planted on his face. He didn't show any fear, or pain as Cato wrenched his head back and placed the knife under his chin.

"Give me the code," Cato tried to sound calm. He really didn't see any need to kill any of them if he could escape without doing so.

"No," the man's response was firm. He would not be swayed by reason, or threats. Cato cut his throat in one clean, swift motion. He dropped the man, who fell into a heap, and bled. He would be dead within seconds. A shriek rang out from the group of Peacekeepers, and Cato turned his head to follow it.

He chose his next target, the source of the scream. She was a blonde haired woman who had already pulled off her helmet to inspect one of her fellow Peacekeeper's leg wounds. Cato grabbed her by the scruff of her uniform, and pulled her to her feet. She cried out in pain as her injured leg took weight.

Cato put the knife to her throat. "I don't want to kill you. I just want the code."

She managed a weak, "No," between whimpers.

Mentally, Cato dissected the last few seconds. She had been inspecting someone else's wound, rather than her own. Cato removed the knife from her throat and pointed it around. "You tell me the code, or I keep slitting throats."

"Okay! Okay! I'll tell you!"

His changed tactic had the desired effect. The woman whispered the numbers to him, weeping. He dropped her back to the floor, hard, and jogged back down the tunnel, leaving the Peacekeepers to their pain.

He punched in the code, and the door opened. On the other side of the door was a box – a plain grey box. It took Cato a moment to realize that this was an elevator. It had been so long since he had seen anything other than the apartment he shared with Peeta. He glanced back down the hallway at the place that had been their home. It seemed so tiny, so far away, and already, so long ago.

He stepped into the elevator. He was unsure of which button to press. He saw that they were 15 stories underground. His stomach turned at the thought. He supposed it best to go the ground floor. He had no idea what would await him when he got to the surface, but knew he must press on, for Peeta.

He pressed the button marked "G."

The doors closed, and the sensation that he was moving upwards washed over him. As the numbers ticked down on a display panel above the elevator door, Cato heard a hissing sound. It took him a moment to find the source, and when he finally whipped his head around to look into the right back corner of the elevator, it was too late. A fine mist was pouring out in a cloud – gas.

The scent reached his nose, and for a fleeting moment, his Mentor's advice about poisonous gasses echoed through his mind, "If you smell it, you're breathing it."

Then Cato fell unconscious to the floor.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hey everyone, wow, what a wild ride huh? It was fun getting to write this chapter about Cato being BAMF, and the one before in which they finally HAD SEX! In the original draft of the story, they did it much earlier, but it just didn't fit with the development of the characters, so at least to me it's felt a long time coming.

It's so funny about this story, I had planned it as a sort of one shot, and now, here we are, 12 chapters later. I hope you are all still enjoying it! Please review! Let me know how you're liking it.

Excited to find out what happens to Cato? I know I am! J


	13. Torture

**Chapter 13: Torture**

'Torture' was a word that Cato thought he understood. Pain was a concept he thought he knew. Strength was a thing he thought he possessed in abundance.

His screams were long silenced, his tears long dry, and his fight had abandoned him somewhere between the first and second week.

He was strapped upright in a chair. Needles crept under his skin, pumping life into his veins. He thought, only a few weeks ago, that death was his worst case scenario. Now it would be welcome. Life was being forced into him, against his will.

Absolute and all-encompassing agony like he had never known before; that was his reality now. That was the life they were force feeding him.

His eyes were held open by machines, around him were television screens playing the Games, the Tour, and excerpts from his life with Peeta. He was shown himself, making the near fatal cut to Peeta's leg, over and over and over again. He was shown a shocking montage, cut together too fast to make any sense, of Peeta killing him at the end of the Games and what had really happened.

He was shown Clove's death, from every angle, and the Tracker Jacker attack, which killed Glimmer and the Career Tribute from 4. Marvel, too, being shot in the throat over and over again. These clips were intercut with shots from the Interviews, the night before the Games, showing his allies alive and well. There was also footage of the fallen Tributes as Mutts.

He watched himself callously refute all attempts at friendship made by Clove, and saw in her eyes the same disappointment he'd come to recognize in Peeta's eyes. How many times, over their lifetime had he hurt her and not even realized, not even cared?

He relived all the times in the apartment that he said or did something to hurt Peeta, all the times he acted like a fool, and all of the times that Peeta cried alone, or woke from nightmares, screaming.

All the while, footage from the Tour played. He watched Peeta in District 2, talking with his family, shaking their hands. He watched, as in each District, the cowardly fool Tribute from 2 was mocked and laughed at for his pathetic death. Meanwhile, in every District, Peeta was asked about life without Katniss, and did he still love her, and how hard must it be to lose your reason to live.

He was surrounded by these monitors.

It didn't start out that way. At first, he had been placed in front of the monitors for just an hour or two here or there, and it was a welcome break from his cell, where he had been tortured. Then it became more frequent, and now it was 24 hours a day. All the monitors playing simultaneously on loop his pain and humiliation and loss.

It was like being trapped in your own mind, but worse. In your mind, you could meditate; you could try to put your focus elsewhere. Cato couldn't escape the images he was being affronted with.

Certainly, he had been physically harmed since his escape attempt. They drown him, electrocuted him, burned him, cut him, and stabbed his pressure points with tiny needs that set them on fire. They had poisoned him, branded him, whipped him, beat him, and starved him. All that, though, had been easier to deal with.

Pain meant you were present. Pain meant you were alive.

This was no longer pain. It was numbness. His pain was so great that he had started not to feel it as different from his normal state of being. It had _become_ his state of being – mentally, physically, emotionally. He knew that at the end of the tour they were going to kill him. How else could they punctuate this assault?

He was too bruised and broken to put back together anyway. It would be much more trouble than it was worth, and he wasn't sure once they removed the needles that he would survive anyway. Every inch of him was bloody or bruised or infected.

He just waited for them to tire of his silence, and finish it.

He could die now. He knew Peeta was safe. It was the end of the tour and he had already been asked several times about what his mentoring strategy would be. It wasn't a guarantee that they wouldn't kill him, but with Cato out of the way there was really no reason.

_It's okay; I can die now. That would be alright._

At least he could see Peeta's face, as it was prominent in most of the clips. Granted, it was usually hurt or sad, but it was just enough for Cato, in his haze, to remember what the boy's face looked like when he was happy, and content, and safe. Peeta was safe. It would be alright. Peeta was safe.

Cato's eyes ached. He wished he could just close them, and lock down the image he had conjured of Peeta. If Cato could just picture the boy's face the way it looked when Peeta had said he loved him, Cato knew he could let go. He could die.

A pang of regret pierced through his numbness somehow; he realized that he had never said it out loud. He never told Peeta that he loved him.

As if by some cue, all of the screens went black – not simultaneously, but at staggered intervals. The sound continued to play, staggered like the video monitors, winding around his head and reached his ears in some kind of cruel echo.

_"You don't have to say it." _

Peeta's voice; sad and gentle.

_"I- I can't-,"_

Cato's own voice; helpless and uncertain.

_"You don't have to say it."_

Cato recognized this conversation.

_"I'm sorry," _

Why had they chosen this particular exchange to show him?

_ "You don't have to say it… if you show me."_

Did they understand his regret?...

_"What are you-?"_

Or could there be some other motivation for them to…

_"I know you don't have to words to tell me how you feel. I believe that someday, you'll find them."_

A dull sense of dread that Cato hadn't realized he still possessed began to wash over him, cutting through his haze of misery.

_" I know you don't have to words to tell me how you feel. I believe that someday, you'll find them."_

Peeta's beautiful words repeated, increasing the sense of urgency that Cato felt.

_" I know you don't have to words to tell me how you feel. I believe that someday, you'll find them."_

Cato knew then, that he would never find them. Not because he would be dead, but because he wouldn't be capable of speaking. His conversation with Haymitch came back to him in fleeting fragments. Hadn't Haymitch said, "If you're lucky, they'll let you keep your tongue, but I wouldn't count on it."

He was going to be Peeta's Avox. Mutilated. Voiceless.

He would never speak again, or, more aptly, he would never be capable of speech ever again. He would never tell Peeta that he loved him. He would never find the words.

'Torture' was a word Cato thought he understood, but he had been very, very wrong.


	14. Silence

**Chapter 14: Silence**

Cato's forehead pressed against the cool window glass of the car that was bringing him to his destination – his new home with Peeta on the outskirts of the Capitol. It was raining out.

Of course it was.

The chill of the window against his forehead gave him a shiver, but he didn't pull away. He stared, unblinking at the pastel colored homes as they blurred past.

His fingers tried, without success to dig into the fine leather of the seat beneath him. The careful stitching, the soft cushion; it all felt so wrong after his weeks of torture. He was uncertain whether he was really there, or whether he had lost his mind in the haze of pain and misery, and simply imagined that he had been released.

It certainly didn't feel like he was really here. It felt as if he was outside himself, watching the car propel him down the cobblestone streets.

He swallowed, which was more difficult than it used to be, now that he didn't have a tongue. Now that he was an Avox.

The effort caused him a great deal of pain. His mouth was still healing from the brutal surgery in which they had practically ripped his tongue out. He remembered, because they hadn't used anesthetic. He'd been awake, choking on his own blood and screams – which no longer sounded human, with no tongue to articulate them.

Cato tried to shake himself free of the memory. and startled back away from the window. He looked in the rearview mirror of the car at the driver, whose eyes were focused forward, and paying Cato no mind.

He moved his hands to his lap, placing them palm up, and flexed his fingers a few times. It still brought the sensation of pain, though not as sharp as the pain in his used to be tongue and throat. He turned his hands over, inspecting the new scars, the evidence of his torture.

He hadn't been sure that it was possible for him to look worse than he had his first few weeks after the Games, but sure enough, he had found a way. After the Games, he had simply looked worse for wear, but after his torture, after his being turned into an Avox, he looked broken.

He wondered if he was… broken.

He felt numb, dull. Even the thought of seeing Peeta brought him little feeling, nonetheless the happiness he'd felt before. His body was all wrong – stitched up tight, contained. He had been weakened to the point of no recovery. He would heal, in time, but never again would be in fighting condition.

He was lucky they'd bothered to put him back together at all, or so the doctors had told him. The stitches too had been done with no anesthetic, so he had felt, had counted each and every pin-prick of the needle and tug of the thread. He could actually quantify just how broken he was.

His face was a hollow shell of his once radiant, handsome façade, and he shied away from mirrors. In fact, he shied away from just about everything, afraid of his own shadow. In his dreams, reruns of the Capitol's monitors played over and over and over. In his waking, each sound, each dancing shadow put him on high alert.

What would Peeta even say to him? What could Peeta do but pity him? Maybe Peeta would tear up the deed to his life and just let him die. That would be best, Cato thought. He didn't know how he could live like this.

He must be broken. Unfixable. Beyond repair.

The car was beginning to take fewer turns, and Cato noticed that the streets were getting less crowded, the houses spreading out. They were getting to the outskirts, which meant they were getting closer to Peeta.

A cold sweat broke out across Cato's palms, stinging the cuts that had been too small to stitch up, but had not yet healed. Cato felt himself begin to tremble. He bit his lip until he the sensation of his own blood dripping down his chin forced him to relent. He tried to stop his shaking, and planted his hands on either side of himself on the seat. He steadied his breathing, and closed his eyes, only to force them back open when images of Clove's skull being bashed in flashed behind his eyelids.

Even the feeling of breathing was more unsettling without a tongue. He wondered if the true torture of being Avox, besides crippling isolation due to inability to communicate, was feeling constantly unnatural.

"You're new." The driver spoke.

Cato's eyes darted up to the mirror and he saw the eyes in the rearview watching him, studying him. He quickly dropped his eyes.

"Usually, if a Victor hires an Avox while they're in town, they'll send someone reliable, who knows the ropes." There was no judgment in the driver's voice, only curiosity. "But you're fresh from the operating table."

Cato nodded, knew somehow without looking that the driver was still watching him. The driver laughed, her tone unreadable, as she said, "You're a fast learner. Most of them in your position are still trying to answer with words… but maybe you were quiet to start with?"

Cato flicked his eyes up to the mirror and was surprised to see a smile in the woman's green eyes – not a cruel smile, but a gentle one. He nodded again, but didn't drop his eyes.

The woman continued, "There now. It's nice to see your eyes for longer than a second. You were pretty handsome before they got to you huh?"

Cato, unsure of how to answer, stayed still.

"I'll take your silence as a yes." The woman laughed again, and Cato's temper flared for just a moment, but he didn't have the energy to maintain the emotion. He knew, of course, that she wasn't making fun of his situation. She was in fact trying to be nice. It was at the expense of his pride, but what did he have left to be proud of anyway?

This thought penetrated his numbness enough for him to give a weak smile.

The woman assumed a more professional tone, and turned her eyes back to the road as she offered, "Anyway, it seems like Peeta Mellark is a different sort of Victor. I don't know quite how to put it, but, I don't think he'll be too hard on you."

With that, the car came to a stop, and Cato realized that they must be at their destination – his new home. He could see Peeta standing outside on their front step waiting for him, looking anxious.

Cato gave the rearview a panicked look, but the woman was polite enough not to acknowledge it.

"I'm told your things have already been delivered here, so, you should be all set." The woman's voice was professional, but not insincere. Cato nodded in response and pushed the door open.

He was about 20 feet from the porch steps, and tried not to make eye contact with Peeta. Instead, he took in their new home. It was modest, as their apartment had been, smaller than the biggest houses in 2 certainly, but big enough for the two of them, especially in comparison with the underground apartment in which they had been living.

Their house was a dusty shade of pale blue, with white trim; simple, down to earth.

Most importantly, Cato noticed with a turn of his head, they had a yard. It wasn't expansive, but it was theirs. It was enough. Cato fixed his eyes on the single tree in their yard. He couldn't place its species, but he knew that in the summer it would have wide, flat green leaves. In the fall, they would change colors and float to the ground.

It would be their calendar of sorts, to remind them that life would always keep going, no matter what.

Cato became aware of the icy rain tracing stinging paths down his skin. Despite irritating his injuries, the rain felt good on his tight skin, which seemed perpetually warm from the multitude of the burns he'd received. Cato looked up towards the sky, and shut his eyes, letting the rain pierce the cloud of apathy that had settled around him.

"Cato…" Peeta's voice, terrified, concerned, angry, sad.

It wasn't surprising, since Cato was wearing the Avox uniform of a simple tunic and pants. His bare arms would betray only a fraction of his injuries, and yet their multitude would seem shocking to Peeta, who had just returned from a being pampered and perfected on his tour the three weeks.

Cato's mouth ached, from the tilt of his head, from the chill of the rain. He relaxed his neck and brought his head back to a level position.

"Cato…" Peeta sounded as if he might cry.

Cato turned to Peeta, opening his arms slightly in a way that might suggest that he meant no harm, had no weapons. What he really meant was that he was open, empty. He had nothing left to give. As soon as his eyes met Peeta's, the boy's blue eyes released the tears that had been brimming at his blonde lashes.

Peeta didn't move, couldn't perhaps, from the shock of seeing Cato like this. He just stood and wept, covering his mouth with a hand to quiet his sobs. Cato clenched his jaw. It hurt. Everything hurt. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel as if he could be strong for Peeta, even if he wanted to. He just kept standing there.

_This is it. I have nothing left to give you._

Peeta finally choked back his tears, and wrapped his arms around himself protectively. "Why aren't you saying anything?" He sounded angry. Cato could have been upset, but he just envied the energy Peeta seemed to have.

"I don't see you, don't hear from you, for 3 weeks. Then you come back and stand at a distance like we're strangers?" Peeta demanded.

Cato just shook his head, ever so slightly. It wasn't like that. It wasn't as simple as all that.

"And look at you!?" Peeta's voice broke, and tears threatened again as he shouted, "What the hell happened to you?!"

Cato could only look, could only stare at Peeta with empty eyes as Peeta continued to shout at him. "What happened?!" He was getting desperate, hysterical. "Why won't you say anything? Please! Tell me-," he choked. "Tell me what happened!"

Cato wanted to go to him, to touch him, to tell him it was okay.

He couldn't. He knew he couldn't speak, but the distance between them seemed to stretch, and walking it seemed an impossibility. He felt so weak, and his head was spinning. He had to try. He had to go to Peeta and try to find a way to tell him what had happened, what was happening, that he was broken and unfixable and worthless… and that he still needed him, that he loved him.

He took one step and collapsed in the mud.

Peeta rushed to him, and dropped to his knees beside where he lay. Cato felt Peeta's arms wrap around him, and pick his torso up off the ground. He was surrounded with Peeta's warmth, his face so close that Cato could taste the boy's sweet breath, smell him, even through the cold wet smell of the rain.

Cato's vision, though, was a blur. He could see Peeta's face, but it felt as if he was looking at him through a long dark tunnel.

Peeta was crying again, hot tears hitting Cato's face, intermingling with the droplets of icy rain. "Why won't you say anything?" Peeta's voice seemed echo-y and far away.

Cato lifted a weak, limp-wristed hand to his mouth, and point, dropping his jaw as he did so, showing Peeta the scar where his tongue used to be.

Peeta sounded panicked when his voice caught up to his ragged breathing, "No. No. Oh no no no no no… Cato… No." Peeta held Cato's face in his hands, crying, pleading with Cato as if there were anything he could do to change that he had been mutilated, that he was an Avox.

Cato reached up with his hand into what seemed like nothingness, as his vision blurred to blackness, but before he lost consciousness, his fingertips reached Peeta's face, trailing a gentle path down the boy's cheek as he went limp.

Tears and rain dappled Cato's closed eyelids. He wondered if he was dying. He could feel, somewhere far away, his body being dragged up the steps towards the house. Peeta's distant voice promised to find him help, to take care of him.

Cato wished he could answer Peeta, but trapped as he was, in muteness, and then finally, in unconsciousness, there were no words. There was only silence.


End file.
